Therapy
by PuddinFreakyStyle
Summary: "We're both trapped in this nut-house, Harleen. Only difference is, you're on the payroll." An act of kindness towards Arkham's most notorious inmate sparks a downward spiral which will send Harleen Quinzel's life spinning out of control. But in games of love and madness, how far can you go before you break? An in-depth take on Harley's origin story, with mature themes.
1. Prologue: The Pale Man

**Prologue:**

 **The Pale Man**

I couldn't stay in Gotham, not after everything that happened there.

I never wanted to work at the Asylum. It was hardly my dream as a little girl to spend my days surrounded by lunatics and medications. It wasn't until I was six months into my internship at Arkham Asylum that I came to realise that a degree in counselling from Gotham University was hardly worth the paper it is written on anywhere outside of the city walls. Still, I was grateful for my position at the Arkham, the first institution to show any interest after a torrent of denied applications. Despite my best efforts, my college grades had not been quite up to scratch, and short of seducing my lecturers I was quickly running out of options. Had I not been accepted at Arkham, I might have given up the game and dropped out of college altogether.

Perhaps that would have been better.

Little did I know that Dr. Arkham had a disposition towards hiring the inexperienced and underachieving to use as bright young cannon fodder before our spirits became crushed beneath the weight of underpayment, psychological strain and abysmal working conditions. Young and eager, I saw Arkham as my chance to prove myself to my tutors, and as a chance to sink my teeth into some _real_ crazies. Arkham has always been infamous for its inmates, from Mad Dog Hawkins to the Calendar Killer. I knew that as an intern I stood not a chance of hell of interacting with their sort; I wasn't even sure that I really wanted to. For me it would be supervised sessions with the schizophrenics and the occasional bed-wetting sociopath if I was lucky.

Still, my morbid curiosity drew me to the more colourful inmates. One such resident, Dr. Johathan Crane, had lectured in psychology at Gotham University not five years earlier. Had I started college not two years before he might have been helping me towards my degree. Another, Harvey Dent, was a celebrated attorney who was on course to becoming Mayor of Gotham before he fell victim to an acid attack and ended up locked in this place. Something about this city just seems to drive people crazy.

The most notorious inmate, however, was always undeniably the Joker. I'm sure he needs no introduction.

There was something electric about that man; his name alone held power within the Asylum's walls. It was whispered in meetings, replaced by goofy nicknames devised to make him less threatening by the orderlies. _Pennywise, Bonzo,_ anything to take away the chill down the spine that simple word could cause. I was no different. I caught one glimpse of him being escorted from one cell to another, the shiver of a laugh dancing on the air, and couldn't shake the image of him out of my mind for days.

Terrified as I was, I begged to sit in on a session with him. Doctor Joan Leeland, at the time his therapist and my mentor, was heavily against the idea. She disliked me from my first day. I was too soft, she said, had no understanding of how things worked in a place like this. Besides, wasn't I majoring in counselling rather than psychotherapy? I had no business poking around in a mind like the Joker's. She sent me back to the drooling patients whose most interesting concerns were nightmares or complaints about the colours of the walls changing in their hallucinations.

The next time I would see him would be in the communal dining area, whilst sat with Lucas, a boy of twenty on the spectrum with a gentle nature who chose never to speak but enjoyed holding hands with the blonde staff members and humming the tunes of his favourite television shows quietly. I had been stunned to learn that Lucas had earned his stint in Arkham when, in the throws of a rare meltdown, he had beaten one of the carers at his respite unit with a cricket bat, breaking both of her legs; the staff had found him buried beneath bean bags in the sensory room murmuring to himself with his hands on his ears, trying to block out the world.

The Joker had been manoeuvred into the community room by his two appointed guards, one of whom settled him alone at the opposing bench to mine and Lucas', whilst the other went to fetch him a tray of food. The sad clown was strapped into a straitjacket, as his patient notes demanded when he was to share space with the other inmates. Again, he was drugged out of his mind. The other guard returned and placed the tray in front of Joker, setting a plastic knife and fork either side of it. The two guards chuckled to themselves and stepped back, watching the scene unfold. When nothing happened, the taller of the guards prompted him.

"Eat up, funny man."

The Joker glanced down at the food before him, looking disinterested through the haze of pharmaceuticals slugging through his bloodstream. His eyes moved to the knife, eyeing it dully, his arms barricaded snugly to his sides.

The second guard grinned. "Come on, Chuckles. Don't want your suede going cold, do you?"

I weaved my hands from Lucas' and clattered over to their table in silence, shooting the two guards an unsavoury look and sitting down beside the Joker on the bench.

He looked very different up close, so much more human. He was a little thick around the middle beneath his asylum-issue clothing, not the pencil-thin phantom who'd graced the front page of the Gotham Gazette for years, yet his face still seemed somehow gaunt as he sat there slumped in his chair. His hair had grown in a rich, dark brown at the roots, overlong, falling in soft waves around his face. Without his makeup, the dark black around the eyes and the ruby-red lipstick, he looked like any other of the asylum's inmates, all be it one who had never seen sunlight.

He was unphased by my presence; swallowing back my uncertainty, I reached a hand across him and took up the fork. His eyes followed the red polish on my fingers as they moved across the plate, scooping up a dollop of mashed suede and hovering it in his direction. His head turned a little my way and our eyes met for a long moment, before he opened his mouth slack-jawed, anticipating.

I fed him like a mother might feed her toddler, one spoon after the other; the long, awkward process went on until all of the food was cleared. Joker said not a word, only watched me with sunken green eyes as he chewed. I smiled at him. It was so strange, to see him as a man as opposed to the fantastical nightmare the media presented him as. I stood, and let the guards know that, should I see anything like this happen again, I would be reporting them.

"He is our _patient,"_ I told them with as much authority as I could muster, "your lack of sympathy is disheartening."

"Don't feel sorry for him, miss," the first orderly, whose name tag read _Fredrick,_ retorted. "He'd snap your neck, given the chance. The guy is cracked."

"You're not paid to play therapist, Fredrick," I barked, placing a hand awkwardly upon Joker's shoulder in an attempt at reassurance before walking away. "That's my job."

That night I went home to my shared flat in the narrows, as I always did, and lay in bed unable to shake the clown from my mind. The experience had harrowed me. I had prepared myself to be greeted with the fantastical, terrific creature I had seen on television and in the newspapers, the effervescent being I thought I'd caught a glimpse of in that corridor; full of life, ripping at the seams with it, and I had found instead a sad middle-aged man with pale skin and tufty, oddly-coloured hair.

I pondered over the injustice of it all. In spite of the terrible things that the clown had done, he was still our patient. No one had the right to treat another person in such a way, especially not a person supposedly in their care. I pondered whether or not to report the orderlies' tomorrow morning.

He was not evil. He was just ill.

 _ **AN: Hey guys! Thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around for this descent into madness.**_ _ **This story is something I've wanted to write for a long time; I've always taken issue with the speed at which Harleen falls in love with Joker and goes full coco-loco of her own accord, so this is my attempt at creating a more realistic approach to her origin story. There'll be some delicious cameos throughout, so keep an eye open. This Joker and Harley are my own interpretation, but I take a lot of inspiration from Hamill & Monnaghan's Joker's, with a dash of Nicholson and Leto thrown in. Harleen is initially a lot more grounded, a la Arkham Origins style. **__**Anyway, now that I've bored you all to tears, do enjoy this twisted tale!**_


	2. Chapter One: Therapy Begins

**Chapter Two:**

 **Doctor Arkham**

If one thing is to be said about Doctor Arkham, the head of Arkham Asylum, it is that he cares a great deal for his patients. Particularly the high-profile ones. So when he received word two weeks later that the Joker had been asking for him by name, he wasted no time in paying the inmate a visit. Near the end of the shift both Joan and myself were called into Arkham's office. Side-by-side facing our boss, I could feel Leeland's nervousness almost as acutely as my own.

Doctor Arkham was a lithe, dark-haired man with icy blue eyes, a long face and spectacles that sat awkwardly on his slightly crooked nose. He was neither handsome nor unappealing, probably younger than his bearing suggested. He was not the sort of man to beat around the bush.

"The Joker no longer wants you as his key worker," he said to Leeland, without a thread of hesitation. "He sobered up enough to tell me that much today, and quite frankly, with the cocktail of medication you've been testing on him the past few weeks, I have to agree with the clown. Prozac, Midazolam, Ritalin… I'm surprised he's still standing."

For the first time since I had met her, Leeland seemed lost for words. She balled her slender hands into fists on the table before her, and listened. That's when Arkham turned to me.

"He is insisting that you take over the role, Harleen."

Now it was my turn to be stunned. In the throws of this new wave of shock, Joan broke free of her silence.

"That is ridiculous," she said with animosity, her voice authoritative. "Harleen is barely more than an intern. She couldn't possibly-"

"I agree," Arkham interrupted, "which is why I'll be handling the Joker from now on and handing over my key patients to you." He handed her three folders across the desk, one marked _Day, Julian G,_ another _Hawkins, Martin_ and the other _Nashton, Edward._ "Study these. Basic patient notes and details. Nashton is particularly prickly, unbareably narcissistic, as I'm sure you've heard, though I'm sure a doctor of your standing can manage the workload."

"Hawkins?!" Leeland snaps, "you're giving me Mad Dog?!"

"Joan, please don't use that name. Hawkins is a co-operative patient, but he's easily taken in my foolish notions. I'll collect the Joker's files from your office tomorrow morning."

Joan's lips pursed, her face soured. Everyone knew how hard she had fought to become the Joker's primary doctor; she had lasted the longest out of all of his key persons, the others either renouncing the position due to stress or, in one case, had left Arkham in a body bag. She wasn't about to give this one up without a fight.

She asked me to step out for a moment. With Arkham's consent I did, and stood timidly the other side of the door listening to the conversation within escalating. The argument went on for ten minutes before Joan stormed out, the three patient folders clutched in front of her. Her face was flushed with rage. Meeting me in the corridor, she sucked her teeth, spitting venom in my direction.

"Look at you," she said, shaking her head. "What on earth is he thinking. That animal will eat you alive."

Doctor Arkham called me back inside, and these several of my questions were answered.

"Unfortunate," Arkham said once I had sat back down, seemingly more relaxed now that his fellow doctor was out of his hair, "but, I think, necessary. Joan has made no progress with Joker in the six months since we brought her in. It's time she moved on to greener, more fertile pastures. She'll come around soon enough."

Somehow I doubted that. "Doctor Arkham?"

"Jeremiah, please."

"…Jeremiah. You said that the patient had asked for me. Specifically."

"Yes. He didn't know your name, but when he described a young blonde in glasses my mental game of guess-who yielded you as the only staff member matching that description. He said the two of you crossed paths in the cafeteria?"

I felt a blush creeping into my cheeks. "Yes. He was… struggling to eat his food. I lent him a hand."

"That's the orderlies' job, Harls." I noted how quickly I had gone from _Harleen_ to _Harls._ "Though it would seem your kindness made quite the impression."

I was unsure of how to respond to that. Jeremiah quickly filled the silence, leaning in close across the desk.

"When Joker was first captured, they held him at Blackgate. I had to fight to get him transferred here, even though I technically own both institutions. The board didn't like the idea of having such an infamous character held within the city itself. You see, in my opinion, the Joker is not _ill,"_ he said, in almost a whisper. "Not in the traditional sense, anyway. His condition cannot be treated or dampened down with medication, like schizophrenia or DID. Joan believes that stuffing them with pills is enough, but that doesn't cure them or change the way they think, the way they _feel._ Only solid, immersive therapy can do that. Joker has potential, more than an old-school quack like Leeland could ever understand. You see it, don't you? That's why you asked to sit in on his sessions."

"Yes," I confessed. "When I first saw him, it was like he wasn't even there. He was deflated, like a sad old balloon. I'd been expecting so much… more."

Arkham smiled secretly to himself. I could feel that he had been harbouring a desire to take on the Joker, perhaps secretly, for a very long time. "You'll see it. I would like you to continue sitting in on his sessions. I think it will be a revolutionising insight into developing your own professional practice, and will open more doors for you than you can imagine. There's no higher bragging order for your CV."

Suddenly I was nervous again. I wanted this, of course I did; it was what I had been looking for since the beginning, a chance to see the real Joker, to gain true insight into one of the most twisted minds on the planet. Suffocating my uncertainty, I nodded in agreement and thanked Doctor Arkham for the opportunity. He beamed back, satisfied.

"Excellent. I'd like a week or two to get him settled, so we'll have our first session together in two weeks' time, on Wednesday at four o'clock." He jotted the time down in his day planner. "Until then, familiarise yourself with the Joker. I'll lend you some of his files to read through. Bring a notepad and pen, and be prepared."

"What for?"

Arkham shrugged, almost wistfully.

"Anything."


	3. Chapter Two: Four O'Clock

**Chapter Two:**

 **Four O'clock**

Those next two weeks passed painfully slowly; news of the new arrangement quickly spread among the staff. Suddenly co-workers who had not spoken to me during my term at the asylum found excuses to sit beside me at lunch, would spark up conversations as we passed by in the hall. Others would stare inquisitively, wondering how one such as myself had managed to secure a place working with the boss to treat the most notorious patient; others would ask their questions outright, sometimes with thinly veiled accusation.

Doctor Arkham forbade me from discussing the arrangement with any of them. Somewhat expectedly, the rumour quickly circulated that the two of us were sleeping together. Doctor Leeland, bogged down with her new workload, would shoot daggers my way whenever we passed in a corridor. For my part, I would avert my eyes to my paperwork and scurry away as quickly as possible.

Jeremiah met me outside the therapy unit at precisely four o'clock on Wednesday morning, as promised. I thought back to the first time I had locked eyes with the Joker, and felt those same nerves wash over me now. Doctor Arkham briefed me quickly on his progress with the clown before we entered the room. I clung to my notepad, trying to calm the rising panic in my chest.

"He's been responding really well to the course of meds I've prescribed. He's manageable, but no longer a vegetable."

I had begun to notice that Arkham's still, poised nature seemed to fracture a little whenever he spoke about the Joker; he seemed to delight in the danger, find his new patient's lunacy exhilarating. I wondered how long he had been looking for an excuse which would allow him to take over the role of therapist.

"I'm interested to see how he responds to you, Harleen. He's quite a different man from who you saw last. He was all too willing to cooperate with the new drug programme when I promised him the chance to see you again. You seem to have left quite the impression."

Arkham opened the door to the simple unit; a table with a set of empty handcuffs welded to it. Three chairs, two of which we occupied. The chair opposing us remained empty. Arkham leant close to me and pulled a lanyard over my shoulders.

"You're panic button," he explained, fingering the device at the end of his own lanyard. "There's also one on each opposing wall. You won't need it, but still... better safe than-"

Just then the door opposite us opened; Frederick, the orderly with whom I had had the altercation with in the cafeteria, entered first, Joker moving in behind him with another of the orderlies. He was taller than I had first thought, towering over Frederick's partner. He nudged his chair gently with his foot gently before sitting in it, shifting it to the middle of the table. I took a mental note of that, fiddling with my paperwork. For the first time I saw his magnetising smile as it blazed in my direction. As he looked up at the pair of us, my heart skipped a beat.

He was truly a different man to the one I had seen in Doctor Leeland's sessions. His hair had been cut short at the sides, the length swept back over his head and secured with product, the colour a fleshly dyed clover-green, neatly brushed, standing high off his head; he was wearing a flattering crisp black shirt rather than the asylum-issue scrubs, and he had shifted a little of the excess weight since last I saw him. the flesh of his face seemed fuller, no longer melting against his bones like candlewax.

He reached out to shake Doctor Arkham's hand; the other man took it without hesitation, eagerly, even, as though the two of them were old friends.

"Jerry," the clown grinned, "good to see you. How's Leeland?"

"Still licking her wounds," Jeremiah joked, and the ease between the two of them unsettled me a little. Before I had a moment to process the feeling, the Joker's attentions turned swiftly to me.

"And here she is," he purred, his voice an impossible blend of gravel and velvet. "The little angel who came to my rescue in the cafeteria. Doctor Quinzel, isn't it?"

"Not quite a doctor yet," Jeremiah laughed; thrown by the clown's forwardness, I smiled dumbly. He held out a hand for me to shake; uncertainly I looked to Jeremiah, who nodded, looking pleased.

Our hands crashed together awkwardly, his fingers snaking around my own. We shook up-and-down in a swift motion for less than a second before he pulled firmly on my hand, pulling me forwards across the desk. My chair screeched beneath me as I flew forwards, yanked to my feet with my torso leant in his direction; he held my hand out of his way by the wrist and squinted at the nametag pinned to my shirt.

 _"_ _Harleen._ Hmm."

Frozen, I was barely aware of how swiftly the two orderlies had moved to restrain him; within moments his hand had released mine, and I was sitting back down, flustered, at the opposing end of the desk. I moved my chair a little further away, startled, as Jeremiah, who looked equally rustled, told the guards that there was no need for them to handcuff the patient. Joker seemed unphased by it all, instead rolling the sound of my name around on his tongue.

 _"_ _Harleen,"_ he said again, testing out the syllables. _"Harlee-n."_

"Let's get started, shall we?" Doctor Arkham said by means of distraction, shuffling in his seat as he rifled through his paperwork. "Now, where would you like to start?"

Doctor Arkham's methods were far from traditional. He allowed the patient to lead the session, only interjecting with a question every now and then, scribbling notes furiously. This gave the Joker plenty of opportunity to talk, a thing which he seemed to love doing. About what I can't really remember- if I still had my patient notes I could tell you- but I remember watching him and thinking, _this man is something special._ Terrific and terrifying.

I scrawled endless notes for the first few minutes, enraptured by the clown's monologue, but after that found that I could not tear my eyes away from his pale hands; they were ever in motion, always gesturing, like great white tarantulas. I caught myself flinching twice when they veered too close.

As expected, he was full of jokes. Every sentence he spoke seemed crafted, wit rolling from his tongue; Doctor Arkham laughed openly at most of them, perhaps too enthusiastically. Whenever he delivered a punchline, the clown's eyes would flicker across to mine, as if to see whether or not I'd caught the joke; each time I would look away instinctively, the blush flourishing in my cheeks anew. I managed to contain my laughter to a smile, attempting to remain professional, but Joker's presence was infectious. In spite of who he was, of all the terrible things he had done, he struck me as likeable.

Every now and then he would throw back his head and laugh, a cold, clear sound like none I had ever heard before. It rang clear as a lion's roar, filling every corner of the small room; the orderlies would tense at its call, Fredrick's meaty hand hovering over the Taser at his side. When he laughed, the room seemed to freeze until he was done.

Another wise crack. Again, Joker flitted his eyes in my direction to see if I was smiling.

"Oh, come on, Doc," he beamed, noting my passive face, "that _was_ funny."

I smiled shyly at him. He winked, diving back into his conversation with Jeremiah, which seemed to have veered onto Gotham politics and the antics of the Mayor; not exactly therapy material. As he spoke, his enthusiasm like effervescence dancing from his pale skin, I watched his animate eyes. They were an electric green, the colour of shamrocks. A girl could get lost in those eyes; perhaps, at one time, some had.

I tried to imagine him without the strange complexion. His jaw was sharp as a knife, his smile infectious, porcelain teeth behind it. He would be quite handsome, I decided, in a sinewy, elongated sort of way.

The session passed by with unyielding speed. By the time a reluctant Arkham brought it to a close, we had run over by half an hour without even noticing. Panicking that I was missing my afternoon med run, imagining the disgruntled look of the nurse who would inevitably be covering me, I gathered my notes hurriedly and stood as Arkham and the clown shook hands again.

Turning to me, the patient offered his hand again. Uneasily I stared at the long, white fingers, remembering the numb fear that had surged through me when he had jolted me close earlier to read my nametag.

"Oh, relax, Doc. I won't bite... not this time."

I smiled, shaking my head a little at my own reluctance. I allowed him to take my hand; his palm was clammy and cold, like a dead mans. I had not noticed the sensation before.

"A pleasure meeting you, Miss Quinzel." For a second I was sure that I felt his finger stroke the inside of my wrist. "I'll be seeing you."

"You too, Mr…" I realised with a sudden embarrassment that I had no idea what I was supposed to call the patient. Jeremiah had not addressed him by any name, only by his patient number when addressing the recording device at the beginning of the session. Surely pandering to his fantasy- calling him Joker- would be a step backwards in his rehabilitation?

The clown grinned. "I know what you're thinking. Mr. Joker sounds ridiculous! How does Mr. J sound?"

I nodded in flustered approval. He released my hand.

"Atta girl. Nicknames are much friendlier, aren't they? For you, I'm thinking Harley."

"Like the motor cycle?"

"Or the medieval jester," he grinned, splaying his fingers together. "Harlequin. Harley-Quinn-zel. Always chasing after their beloved, always in league with the Clown."

"Very nice," Jeremiah said, checking his watch again and ushering me out of the room. "Same time next week, _Mr. J."_

"You'll be back to visit me too, won't you, Harley?" Joker called, obediently heading for the other door upon the orderlies' instructions.

"Oh, she wouldn't miss it for the world," Jeremiah quipped, a hand on his shoulder as I stepped out into the corridor.

Once were are alone I was finally able to relax; Jeremiah was smiling from ear to ear.

"Thoughts?"

I tried to come up with something intelligent to say, a truly insightful evaluation. But I couldn't quite put into words my feelings towards the man I had just met.

"He's really something else, isn't he?"

Jeremiah grinned wider. "I knew you'd see it. Any observations?"

Something came to mind and I smiled, proud of myself. "He seemed unable to keep his hands still, and in the very beginning, just before he sat down, he moved his chair to the centre of the room; usually I'd associate that with OCD, but his erratic nature opposes that theory..."

Arkham laughed beneath his breath.

"Harleen," he teased, scoffing at my naivety. "He wasn't moving his seat so that it was in the centre of the room. He was moving it _in front of the panic button."_

~oOo~

Over the next two months, I lived for four o'clock on Wednesday afternoons. Security had been relaxed as Joker had been uncharacteristically well-behaved throughout our sessions; only Fredrick sat in on our sessions now, and my finger flinched near the panic button about my throat far less often.

Even Leeland seemed to have settled into her new role; she scowled at me less, made less grating comments in the staff room. One of the patients she had taken over from Jeremiah, Martin _'Mad Dog'_ Hawkins, was declared ready release within three months. Though this would under other circumstances have been seen as a huge success for the institution, as caught up in our research of Joker as we were, Jeremiah hardly glanced at the leasing papers when it came to signing them.

Doctor Arkham and I began taking lunch in his office, which in turn furthered suspicions of some lurid affair between the two of us. Most of the staff had turned on me because of the rumours, or had been poisoned by Joan's spite towards me; the pair of us came to agree that their insinuations didn't matter. We spent the time pouring over our notes, sharing ideas and theories we had found, and accessed the newspaper archives to gather every major article on Joker that we could find.

It became obsessive. We became certain that the key to unravelling Joker was to discover who he had been before his transformation into the self-titled Clown Prince of Crime; if he had always exhibited sociopathic traits, then perhaps he could not be cured. But if he had been a normal man, a man with a family and a job and a home to call his own outside of the Asylum walls, then the pair of us saw hope for him yet.

Perhaps we were foolish. It certainly seems that way now.

Our eighteenth appointed session clashed with my cousin's wedding in Star City. Accordingly, I took a couple of days off to attend. There were the usual jibes of _"It'll be you next, Harleen!"_ and _"When are you going to get yourself a boyfriend, huh?"_ from various long-lost relatives, but it was a beautiful ceremony and a lovely day, one of the rare occasions when the whole family got together. But then, at seven PM, just after the toasts had concluded, my phone rang. The screen read _Dr. A._

"It's Arkham," I told my mom, who was peering over my shoulder.

"Yer workin' too hard, Harls," Dad said, squeezing my shoulder and pulling the phone away from me. Mom giggled, leaning into him as I fought to get the phone back. The two of them seemed to have found new love since his release; she had waited for him for four years, and another six before I was born. It was romantic, in its own way. I wondered whether I'd ever be capable of such devotion.

"Dad, it's my _Boss!"_

He answered the phone, holding it out of my reach.

"Hello? Yeah, this is Miss Quinzel's phone. Nah, she can't talk right now-"

 _"_ _Daddy-!"_

"It's your day off!" Mom grinned, entwining her fingers with Dad's and kissing his knuckles. "You're supposed to be enjoying yourself."

"I'll kill you," I whispered playfully, holding the receiver up to my ear. Dad winked at me, giving me the thumbs-up.

Before I'd even said hello, Jeremiah was talking hurriedly. He sounded irate.

"Harleen? Who was that?"

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Arkham-"

"Never mind that now. Today was a disaster, a complete disaster!"

"Oh… are you alright-?"

"No, not really. The session started as normal, he was his usual self. He asked where you were. I told him you had another appointment, that you'd be back next week. He didn't say anything."

"…Oh. How did the rest of the session go?"

"I don't think you're understanding. He didn't say _anything._ Not one word, for the entire session. Spent forty minutes staring at the wall before I called the session off."

I had no idea what to say. I told Jeremiah as much. He, too, seemed unsure, but I could feel his frustration. I got the impression that he thought it was somehow my fault. Arkham briskly tried to change the subject.

"How's the wedding?"

"It's good," I assured him; I would have elaborated had he not cut me off.

"Good. I'll see you on friday. Goodbye, Harleen."

He had hung up before I could even respond.

When the next week's session rolled around, the same nerves I had felt the first time I had stepped into the room crept back beneath my skin. Joker and Fredrick were already there, the latter of the two looking terribly worn out. The clown eyeballed me as I took my seat, his expression a mask of death.

"Well, will you look what the cat dragged in," Joker sneered. We did not shake hands.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, attempting to diffuse the situation.

"I'm feeling…" he looked up at the ceiling in his usual theatrical fashion, searching for the right word. _"…Displaced."_

I remained silent, waiting for Jeremiah to take over the session. Coming to the understanding that he was not going to interject I said, "and why is that?"

"Well, Doc, my favourite therapist hasn't been doing her job lately. Can you believe she never even showed her face at our last session? Jerry here and I were quite disappointed."

"I had a family matter to attend to," I said, sounding more collected than I felt. "I'm sorry if my not being here upset you, Mr. J."

He considered me a moment with that same stare, before his demure changed completely. He grinned, sat upright once more, and slapped his hands against the table.

"Apology accepted, Harley."

I breathed a mute sigh of relief.

"Speaking of family matters," Joker said, perking up, "how's the wife, Jerry? And your little girl... what was her name again? Holly?"

"Hattie," Jeremiah corrected, "well, Harriet." It still surprises me how familiar the two of them can be sometimes. "Shall we start the session now?"

"That would be _wonderful."_

Arkham cleared his throat and began, turning on the tape recorder and, after basic introductions, asked a few simple questions as to Joker's well-being. He seemed his usual self, cheery and mirthful, cracking jokes and not even mentioning his complete dismissal of Jeremiah last week. Jeremiah, however, had not forgotten. Halfway through the session he addressed the matter.

"Last week you refused to cooperate with therapy. May I ask why?"

Joker smiled knowingly, leaning back in his chair. "Take a wild guess, Jerry."

Jeremiah's eyes flitted over to mine. I looked down at the table, unjustly ashamed. The sinews in the back of Arkham's hand shifted, then tensed.

"What was it about Miss Quinzel's absence that lead you to silence?" He said coldly. In response, Joker leaned closer to me across the table, intrusively close; I saw Frederick shift behind him. I had no choice but to meet the clown's eye.

"She does lend a certain ambience, doesn't she, Jerry?" the clown said, almost wistfully. "Without our little wallflower here the session just felt… empty."

"I thought the two of us worked well together," Jeremiah said, sounding affronted.

"Don't snarl, Jerry. You haven't got the face to carry it off."

Weeks passed, and a feeling of normalcy returned. Jeremiah seemed to overcome his annoyance at Joker's dismissal of him, though he no longer looked at me in quite the same way. He was less open to sharing his ideas, and laughed and joked less freely in the therapy room. Joker didn't like that. I could feel it.

The interviews became more structured, less conversational, though Jeremiah did have our time together extended by another half hour, in which he would hand the session over to me. I was tremendously excited for the opportunity. For each session I would prepare a series of questions, pre-approved by Arkham, and whilst I conducted therapy he would scrawl endless notes. I was nervous at first, but soon adapted to the role of therapist over note-taker. Doctor Arkham told me that he aimed to assess Joker's interactions with me on a deeper level.

Things were going well again. Joker was more co-operative than ever, rarely dismissing my questions, and rarely acting out outside of the sessions aside from the odd incident of yanking down an orderlies work pants or pushing another inmate's face into their lunch tray for the hell of it. The pair of us built up a good rapport, and I began to see him for the tortured soul that he really was. I knew that there had to be more to him than just the manic smile and the feverish insanity; there was a man behind the mask, a man who had endured great suffering and was forced to bury it beneath jokes and smiles. I became convinced of it.

I got a rare glimpse of him during one session on a lazy spring afternoon. Three months of therapy had blown away in the breeze. The time had come for me to ask my own questions.

"What made you decide to call yourself Joker?" I asked.

"Ah, my _nom de plume,"_ he said, smiling fondly. "Let's face it Harley; with a face like mine, I never really had a choice."

As the session came to a close I asked a question which I didn't expect an answer to. His past had to be the key; no one wakes up one morning and decides to become the self-styled clown prince of crime. Leeland had been convinced that he was just, as she put it, your text-book sociopath with a gimick. She used the turns psychopath and sociopath interchangeably, and whilst I agree that Joker shares many of the later's traits, I do not believe that he was born a killer. Although Arkham had never broken down any barriers when asking about Joker's past, I figured I'd give it a shot, expecting the same dismissals that Arkham, Leeland, and every other quack who had ever been involved in his therapy had recieved.

"You claim to have no memory of your past," I stated calmly, pretending to read from my notes as though I didn't have every detail of this man memorised. I heard Joker's feet shift beneath the table, as though adjusting himself to the question. "Is that true?"

"The past is a strange, hazy place for me," the clown said after a long while, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I tend to steer clear of it. You can get lost in there, and it's not always easy to claw your way out."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Arkham had jolted bolt awake, and was scribbling Joker's words down in furiously. Even Frederick, who usually stood like a stone pillar, showed some sign of intrigue.

"So you do remember something."

"Some things," he admitted. "Sometime I get… flashes. A colour, a smell, a ditty or a name. A face, if I'm very lucky, but I'm never quite sure who they are. Not that I usually care. Sometimes I see things one way, sometimes another."

Arkham's excitement became a tangible thing, engulfing the room like a huge bubble. This was revolutionary. He had never heard Joker talk this way about his past; I too couldn't believe my luck, was grinning inside like the Cheshire cat, but fought to maintain composure as the patient continued.

"Are there… do you have any solid memories? Things that you know to be true?"

He frowned deeply, grey lines forming over his face. "Some. Nothing that would make an appropriate bedtime story, mind you."

"Would you tell me about them?"

He watched me quizzically, his hands folded over his chest.

"You, maybe. But four's a sausage fest."

"Out," Arkham barked at the orderly, without hesitation. Fredrick looked taken aback.

"Sir, you know he's not supposed to be left alone with-"

"Do you want to lose your job?"

"No, sir."

"Then do as you're told, Fred."

"Yeah, _Fred,_ do as you're told," Joker teased, turning to wave the orderly away. Then he looked to Jeremiah.

"You too, Doc. _Skadoodle._ Three's still a crowd, and this confession is for Miss Quinzel's ears only."

 _"_ _Joker-!"_

"It's not that I don't love you, Jerry, I really do. But I feel like Harley and I just have this… _connection."_

I saw Arkham struggle with himself, watched his thought process. I felt his frustration, his excitement. It was going against all protocol; it was, essentially, criminal. Staff endangerment would not be treated lightly; but who needed to know?

Afterwards, I understood what he had been thinking; if anything did go wrong- _if he does kill her-_ then he is an important member of the Arkham and Blackgate board, by rights the owner of both institutions; if he did this, he could ensure that there would be little to no repercussions. I wouldn't be the first resident murdered by the clown, and it was easy enough to delete security footage. He hungered for those answers as much as I did.

"I'll be outside the door," he said, and left quickly. He came back swiftly with Fredrick in tow, who quickly cuffed Joker as Jeremiah checked that the tape recorder was in working order. As he left again, Joker reached out with his bound hands and turned it off.

"For your ears only," he smirked, tapping a finger against his nose. He sat back then, clasping his hands together. "Forget the notepad, too. This is just between us two. Are you sure you want to hear this?"

I could feel my short fingernails digging into my palms. "Please."

And then he told me a story which broke my heart.

His hands were shaking by the end of it, his eyes bleary. For the first time I truly saw what I had known to be there; a man behind the mask.

In terms of understanding him, it was a true breakthrough. PTSD, roots for his sociopathy; the things he revealed to me, the memory of his childhood which he shared with me alone, opened up a plethora of new possibilities and avenues to explore to unlock his past and help him to heal. It explained in part the fixation with clowns and the circus, and the craving to be the centre of attention. If I went public with this story, it would be proof of my capability, that my place here, despite the doubts of Leeland and everyone else, was well-deserved.

But all I could think of was that little boy, crying alone in a forgotten corner. I'm not ashamed to admit that I wept for him that night.

When it was done, he made me promise not to tell Arkham, or anyone else.

"Keep this one to yourself, Harls," he said, his voice dry and distant. "Our little secret. Do you promise?"

I knew Jeremiah would not be happy. I looked up at the door to see him watching, sternly but infatuated, through the glass. But Joker, a man who had never indulged any of his therapists with even a flicker of his past life, had put his trust in me. I could not forsake that.

"I… I promise."

Joker smiled. He held his cuffed hands out towards me, extending a finger.

"Pinky swear."

Cautiously, I locked my finger with his own. The two of us stared at each other for the longest time, our fingers entwined, griseous blue against shamrock green.

The door opened sharply, and Jeremiah re-entered. Joker pulled back, slipping from my grip and pretending to dry his eyes.

 _"_ _Whoo-wee._ She's a golden goose, this one, Doc. Keep her well on the payroll."

"I certainly will. Fredrick, if you could show Mr. J back to his room."

Fredrick obliged. Once the two were gone, Jeremiah reached out and pushed the play button on the recording device. He fast forwarded to the moment where he adjusted the tape, then pressed play; I heard the door close, then Joker shuffle in his seat, and then the recording let out a high pitched screech, signalling its end.

Jeremiah was stunned. I tried to explain, saw his torment; he began to panic, _then tell me, tell me everything he said!,_ desperate to record the information before I forgot a single detail. I confessed my promise to him. Horrified, Jeremiah tried to keep his composure, but began to yell; it was my responsibility to tell him, I was his subordinate. _I am your boss, Harleen. All that danger, vital information, and you refuse to share it?!_

I told him that I would not, not now, at least, without Joker's permission. It was important to respect his wishes and keep his trust if we wanted to make further progress. Jeremiah seemed to understand that, reluctantly. Wanting to escape the heated environment, I asked to be excused so that I could write up all that Joker said. Eventually he relented, fearing that the essence of the Joker's confession would be lost. Before he let me go, Jeremiah took a moment to compose himself, adjusting his glasses against the crook of his nose. I wondered if somebody had broken it. I could see then why someone might want to.

I was truly proud of myself. I consider that moment to be a breakthrough, and, though it went unaccredited, the highlight of my short career.

But things were not to last.


	4. Chapter Three: Mad Dog

**Chapter Three:**

 **Mad Dog**

Within weeks a disaster so great fell upon Arkham that it shook the very foundations of the Asylum. It came to me in the form of a phone call on Sunday night. Jeremiah was on the other line; he could barely speak, his voice shaky.

"Harleen," he stuttered, barely breathing. I tried to decipher what was wrong; moments later he let out a sob, apologised, and hung up the phone.

It was early on Monday morning that I found out what had happened. We were all called for a meeting in the staff room, where Doctor Leeland broke the news to us. She looked exhausted.

"Doctor Arkham will be away from work for the foreseeable future," she told us. "There was an incident yesterday afternoon, and he lost his wife and daughter."

Silence. I feel a weight sink in my chest.

"He's asked for no phonecalls or visits at this time, but if you want to offer your sympathies, cards are welcomed. Until the board make further arrangements, I'm the acting warden of the asylum. Workloads will be altered accordingly over the next few days."

She closed the meeting and sent us on our way. For the rest of the day my mind chewed over what could possibly have happened; I imagined him sitting at home, sobbing, or in a police station somewhere. I thought of his little daughter, Harriet, whose picture he kept on his desk. It was decided amongst the staff that it must have been a car crash, for both of them to have been killed. I wrote him a card that night, and decided to deliver it by hand. Everyone knew where the Arkham estate was- Uptown Gotham, gated property, hard to miss, far from my stuffy apartment in the narrows. When I arrived at the manor house, I'd found it's entrance barred off with police tape.

I posted the card the next morning before work. When I arrived at the asylum, Leeland was nowhere to be seen, and there were three junior police officers wandering about the building. I asked one of the girls on reception, Pearl, what was going on; receptionists are famed lovers of gossip, and Pearl was no different. She leaned in close over the desk and gave me her version of the terrible truth.

It had not been a car accident. It had been murder.

At first, hearing those words, I thought it must have been a burglary gone wrong. Then some terrible part of me thought it must have been Jeremiah himself who did it; then the story unfolded, and I learned the truth.

Mad Dog Hawkins, Jeremiah's former patient, the one who had been released only a few weeks past; he had found his way into the Arkham household whilst Jeremiah was still at the Asylum, filing paperwork in his office. Jeremiah had received a call from his wife in hysterics, saying there was someone in the house. Naturally Jeremiah had called the police and driven home in a panic; by the time he arrived home the house was surrounded by police cars, Mad Dog had been arrested, and his wife and daughter were dead.

Nothing could have surprised me more than finding him sitting on a bench outside of the therapy room at quarter-past four on Wednesday afternoon. I rushed over to him, exclaiming loudly, asking what he was doing here, then offering my support against the tragedy. With his uncombed hair and gaunt features, Jeremiah looked like a corpse in man's clothing. His shirt was crumpled, one shoe unlaced. If he had been sitting on a street corner, passers-by would have offered him their change. He smelt ever so faintly of something stale and alcoholic.

I wrapped my arms around him quietly. His breathing was laboured.

"I'm so sorry," I said, tears glazing my vision. I shook them away; I had no right to cry, not when he was being so strong.

"I look a mess," Arkham dithered, trying to smooth out the rumples in his clothes as he pulled away from the embrace, "I'm living out of a suitcase. I can't go back to the house, I just... look at me, such a state. I tried to iron my shirt this morning in the hotel, but... well, Corrine usually does it…"

He showed me the length of his wrist, which was showing an angry red burn. He pulled his sleeve back down over it, blathering on. "I had to come in. Can't miss the session, we're making such progress, and after last time…"

"Jeremiah," I pleaded, laying a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to cave beneath it. "Go home. _Please."_

"God, I can't even… it's not a home any more. It's a mausoleum. God, Harleen. That sick bastard, he… I… I can't even tell you. I can't say it." He goes quiet, breathing heavily. "I signed his release papers."

"You couldn't have known," I say, "please don't blame yourself."

"I can't talk about it," Jeremiah says suddenly. He shakes his head, trying to focus.

"You shouldn't be here."

"It's Wednesday. Session time. He'll be upset if I'm not there-"

 _It's not you he'd miss._ "Let me worry about that."

"You can't take the session, you're not qualified… I'll have to get Leeland back in. Oh, God, the spiteful bitch. She'll revel in it."

"I can handle Joker," I said, and almost believed it. "Besides, he hates Leeland. At least if I conduct the session there'll be a sense of familiarity, and who knows him better than the two of us?"

"Exactly, the _two_ of us-"

"You cannot be here, Jeremiah," I interrupted him sternly, but tenderly, like a mother reprimanding her child. "Not today."

There was a moment where his eyes ripened with tears, but just as they were about to fall, he dabbed them dry. He let out a single sob, and when he spoke again, his voice was like a small child's.

"Sorry. Just for today. Then… I'll talk to Leeland, arrange the session. Then I'll go."

"Let me talk to Leeland," I said, my hand on his again.

He nodded weakly. I escorted him to the door, where a moustachioed police officer looked surprised to see him; the police were still lingering about the building, interviewing various staff members and going through our records. The two conversed for a while, the officer arranging for one of his subordinates to drive Jeremiah back to his hotel. Before he got into the car, Jeremiah turned to me.

"We were going to invite you to dinner," he said. I tried to smile back at him.

"That would have been nice."

Once Jeremiah was gone I made the call over to Leeland's office, sickeningly nervous; I wanted nothing less than to do so, but I couldn't leave Jeremiah to deal with the arrangements, not in the state he was in. She answered the phone in a fluster, and I explained the situation. She sounded even more irate than usual; though I suppose that's what happens when a patient you put forward for release goes on a killing spree.

When I told her Arkam's suggestion that I take the session, I expected to be shouted at, instantly rebuked. For her to tell me that of course she would be taking the session, or it would be cancelled, or handed over to a more experienced member of staff. But that did not happen. Instead, Joan went oddly quiet.

"Fine," she said, her voice affected. "Just this once, if you can handle it."

I couldn't have been more surprised by her response. "Are… are you certain?"

"Yes. You profess to know him, after all. He must like you. Jeremiah says the two of you have made progress. Call up the security unit and have them make arrangements. Unless you don't think you're qualified to do it?"

I chose to ignore the sting in her tone. "No, that won't be a problem. Thank you, Doctor Leeland."

She hung up the phone. I would usually have been offended, but I was so surprised I didn't receive far worse it barely even registered as rude. I made the call over to maximum security and arranged for both orderlies to be present once more and for Joker to be handcuffed. I went about my morning duties as normal, though the only thing on my mind is what I might ask Joker when the two of us were all but alone. Arkham was always touchy about certain subjects, skimming over them or ignoring them all together; I saw it as my opportunity to get those hidden answers, understand our patient on a new level. I hated the idea of having to take advantage of Arkham's tragedy to do so, but _when life gives you lemons…_

Half past four came at last. I entered the therapy room brimming with anticipation, and there was Joker, his hands cuffed on the table in front of him, Frederick and the other orderly flanking him like stern marble pillars. He looked well; brushed hair, mauve shirt, bright, mobile eyes. He looked just as I had saw him at our first _real_ session, grinning and keen.

"What's up, Doc?"

"Hello, Mr. J."

He looked at his bare wrist and tutted aloud. "What sort of time to you call this? Three hairs past a freckle, dear me. Tardiness allows more time for the Devil to play, you know. Where's Jerry?"

I sat down calmly, adjusted my glasses. "Doctor Arkham's had a rough week."

He grinned, winked. "Is that what the kids call a hangover nowadays?"

I knew that I shouldn't give Joker any details of Arkham's private life, but I felt that he needed to know that the issue was serious. I told him that he had suffered a personal tragedy, to which Joker appeared, briefly, very concerned. Then the tension passed his face and he asked,

"So we're all alone today, then? Plus the reason for security being racked up… the cuffs, the orderlies, that panic cord around your neck?"

I fingered the strap around my neck gingerly. "Yes. Just for today."

Joker leaned back in his chair, satisfied. "Good. It's about time we stopped having a chaperone." He winked suggestively; I smiled, brushing his teasing aside.

I held the session together well, asking the regular questions as well as a good deal of my own. Joker answered them merrily, in his usual fashion.

"Do you want to talk about what we spoke about?" I asked at one point, knowing he would understand what I was referring to.

"No, no," Joker said dismissively, batting a hand at the air. "No, you wouldn't want to hear any of that, Harley. Not for the faint of heart or the gentle of disposition. Besides, they're not funny. If a story won't get a laugh, if the crowd go home crying, what's the point in telling it? My life is supposed to be a comedy, not a tragedy. Which one is yours, Harls?"

"That's for my therapist to know and you to wonder," I smiled; Joker burst into a fit of hysterics, until tears formed in his eyes.

"Was that a joke, Harls?! A joke, from Harleen Quinzel?! _Ha!_ Ooh, I knew this was going to be fun!"

I giggled. I felt, at last, that I had worked up the courage to ask him the question I had been forbidden to ask under Jeremiah's guidance, to which I craved an answer desperately. This was my chance- perhaps my only chance- to receive an answer.

"Joker?"

He smiled wider, perhaps because I had called him by name. "Yes, Harley sweet?"

I breathed in sharply. _In, out. In, out._

"Why… why did you ask for me to be involved in your therapy?"

Joker leaned a little in my direction, bearing himself against the table so that his face was closer to mine, so close that I couldn't look away. I stared deep into those emerald eyes, imagining I might get a glimpse behind the madness again. I wondered if, perhaps, I might be about to see him again now.

"Tell you what, Harls. You get rid of the screws, and I'll answer whatever question you throw at me. Scout's honour."

I turned to the two orderlies. Fredrick frowned, shook his head. I looked back at Joker. He shrugged his shoulders; it was my choice, after all.

It was a bad idea. A truly stupid, reckless thing to do. To allow oneself to be alone in a room with one of the most unpredictable, dangerous men alive. But something within me compelled me to allow it.

"You can go," I said, before reason could take over and I changed my mind.

"Miss Quinzel-!"

"Doctor Leeland told you that you were to do as I asked, gentlemen. And I'm asking you to step outside."

The two looked between one another.

"You've got your panic button," Fredrick said, scowling. "Ten minutes, Harleen."

The two men left. I heard their footsteps wander a little down the corridor before the door shut after them.

"Authoritative," Joker mused, "well done, Miss Quinzel. Now… what is it you wanted to know?"

I asked the question again. "Why did you want me here?"

He turned the question back on me. "Why do you _think_ I wanted you?"

The phrasing of the question made my cheeks burn. _You're in control, Harls,_ I told myself. If only it had been true.

"I think that you were touched when I helped you out in the cafeteria that day. Am I right?"

He smiled knowingly. "Something like that. You certainly left an impression, Harley. The second I met you I knew that the two of us would get along like house on fire… or a _mad_ house, whichever you prefer."

"And why is that?"

"Well look at you, Harley. No offence, but… _yeesh._ You're young, you're _b-e-a-utiful,_ and you're rotting away here in Arkham _by choice._ And they say _I'm_ crazy."

"I like my job," I defended.

"Then you're definitely crazy. But I know you, Harley. I know you only wear those glasses because you think it makes the rest of these quacks think you're smart. I'm surprised you've kept the blonde hair… do blondes really have that much fun? Maybe I should try a colour change myself. Tell me, is green in this season?"

"I… my glasses aren't-"

"Oh, _come on."_ His hand darted out quickly and he pulled the spectacles from my face; he slid them over his own eyes and laughs again.

"See? As useless as peddles on a wheelchair. Ha!" He tapped the glass in each lens then placed them down on the table, pushing them in my direction. I felt my cheeks burn.

"Don't be embarrassed, Harls. I'm not one to judge when it comes to theatrics. I'm sure nobody else has noticed; I just have an _eye_ for these things."

I reached out to take my glasses from the table; as I did Joker grabbed hold of my hand, slamming it down against the table, his fingers clenched about my wrist. Petrified by his sudden change in mood, I didn't try to break free.

"The people locked up in here aren't the real prisoners. _You_ are. We're both trapped in this nut-house, Harleen... only difference is, you're on the payroll. These loonies, fruitcakes and nutso's? They've gone off the beaten track. They've taken the road less travelled. They may be crack-pot insane, but at least they're _free."_

"Mr. J, let go-!"

He clamped my hand tighter to the desk, a dark fire in his eyes. I knew, then, that something was going to happen. I knew that I had just become a victim.

"You are trying to squeeze yourself into this tiny little box," the clown hissed at me, bringing his face closer to mine. "You're trying to be what _they_ want you to be. What do you see in your future, huh? Nice little suburban house, boring husband, couple of plain-old kids who'll grow up to have the same meaningless lives?! That isn't _you,_ Harley! I _know_ you… I know _you._ I see what you really are; I see the potential, what's lurking just below the surface-!"

I reached for the panic button on the length around my neck. "I don't know what you're talking about-!"

He saw me move for the device and sprang, bearing his teeth as he lunged at me, grabbing hold of the panic cord around my neck; I screamed as loud as I could as he wrenched me across the table by my clothes and slammed me onto the floor. As I tried to get up I saw him move for the door, thrusting the back of his chair underneath the door handle, trapping the two of us inside. I grabbed the chair leg to pull myself up, yelling the guards for help; as I did so he pounced on me, straddling my waist and pushing me back against the floor; I hit out at him with my hands, screaming for him to stop, as he reached for the panic chord about my neck and twisted it hard, so that the rope gripped my throat tightly, cutting off my air supply.

I heard Fredrick and the other orderly shouting at the door, trying to get it open; I screamed again for help and Joker slammed his elbow across my cheek, winding me.

"Admit it, Harley!" he growled, releasing the panic chord and putting both hands about my throat, the handcuffs not restrictive enough to prevent it. _"You want more!"_

I could not speak. I thought I was going to die, right there on the floor of that therapy room. His cold, white hands were choking the life out of me; I had seen footage of him hurting people before. Gunning down a room full of philanthropists at a charity gala. Bludgeoning another inmate with his dinner tray back when he was being held at Blackgate. I had seen so much of his destruction, and always, always he had been laughing.

But he was not laughing now. He just glared down at me, that same fire blazing in his eyes, the eyes of a madman. He was shouting at me, but I could not register what he was saying through the panic and the ringing in my ears. I only wanted to be let go. Tears streamed down my face as I fought to breathe.

Perhaps through lack of oxygen, on the breaking point, I reached an odd sense of calm. For a moment the pain washed away, my vision darkened, and I focused only on his eyes. They were that same lurid green, feverish, but the same. There was something comforting in that.

Then something changed. Joker's expression began to change, in the fluid, slow way a chameleon changes its colours. First his eyebrows softened, then the curl of his mouth. Then his eyes, which had been so crazed moments before, began to soften, a confusion clouding them, and his grip on my throat began to ease off. His fingers unclasped from my throat, and he looked, I could have sworn, to be confused. As I wheezed for breath, the ghost of a smile crept back onto his face.

"I'm just kidding you, Doc," he said, and brushed the loose hairs away from my face with his fingers gently. "It's only a joke."

He climbed from on top of me, kneeling at my side. He stroked my cheek tenderly as my world began to darken, those green eyes the last thing I would see.

"You and I are going to have a lot of fun."


	5. Chapter Four: A Few Knick-Knacks

**Chapter Four:**

 **A Few Knick-Knacks and a Neck Brace**

I awoke that night in the A&E unit of Gotham General Hospital, with my parents either side of my bed. I cried like a baby in my Mom's arms while Dad paced the room, his distress like a living, breathing thing.

"I'll kill that sick bastard," he growled, hands balled into fists. I reached a hand out to him. He ignored it. "I dealt with worse than him when I was in Blackgate. I'll break every bone in his body, see if he's laughing then. Evil, twisted freak. Why were you on your own?! You're not even a real therapist yet."

"Will you stop?" Mom scolded him.

"No, Sharon. Ain't no way she's going back to that shit hole, you understand? I don't care how hard she's worked for it, no one's smacking my little girl around. You listening, Harleen?"

"Yeah," I wheezed, deflated. "I'm listening."

Hours passed. I was barely able to raise my head from the pain. A nurse showed me the bruising in a mirror, their huge expanse smothering me in a blossom of russet red and magenta, like watercolours on a fragile canvas. Almost beautiful in their own way.

Two days later I went home to Blüdhaven with my parents. Mom nursed me like a child, and I leant upon her support. There was a mad flutter of press at our door once the news got out, but all that quickly died out after a few days as new, twice-as-harrowing stories caught their attention. I had several calls from a shaky-sounding Jeremiah, who sounded worse than ever. The press had been hounding him, too. He told me that, after he had stopped trying to kill me, Joker removed the barriers he had set against the doors and let the orderlies back in. They had tasered him, and now he was locked down in maximum security. I apologised to Jeremiah. He apologised back.

Then Joan Leeland turned up on my parent's doorstep. She explained to me that the board had agreed to keep her on as Warden until Jeremiah was ready to return; it was a bold move after a patient she'd decided was ready for release had committed two murders and she had approved a college student to oversee a session with the asylum's most notorious inmate. A promotion hardly seemed like a reprimand, but the Arkham board always did like to play things close to home.

I was reprimanded heavily, or as heavily as one can reprimand a woman who can barely flinch for bruises. Leeland informed me that Jeremiah had put forward a plea to smooth things over with the board and ensure that I would not lose my position; when I was fit to return to my college placement, it would not be a return to Arkham, but a transfer to Blackgate. I could tell by her tone that, for her, this was not enough.

And so it was decided. The idea of Blackgate unnerved me. I hated the place, and with good reason, though as Leeland had cruelly pointed out, I knew my way around well enough. I'd spent plenty of hours inside those walls on visits during my teenage years once Dad had been locked away. I imagined the embarrassment of the other staff knowing whose daughter I was, and the reputation that went along with the Quinzel name because of it.

I was allowed time from college due to the profoundly mitigating circumstances. After three weeks at home wallowing in my sorrows, sleeping for as long as I could until the nightmares came, I felt ready to return to the Asylum to collect my meagre belongings. Dad insisted he would go for me, but I had in turn insisted that I do this myself. He drove me there all the same, and in the parking lot, told me not to take my time, or he'd be coming to find me. I kissed him on the cheek and made my way inside.

Knowing I was coming, my belongings had been taken from my locker and piled up on one of the deks in the staff room, which was completely empty; it was six o'clock, and time for the evening medicine run. There wasn't much work taking; my stationery, a few photographs, a couple of _'get well soon'_ cards that had been left by staff who had no way of delivering them to me. Someone had been considerate enough to take my drinks mug from the kitchen cupboard, which had been a secret santa present; it read, _"you don't have to be mad to work here... but it helps!"_

I'd laughed so hard at that when I'd received it. I stared at the writing for a long while, running my finger along the tea-stained rim. It was disheartening to see that all of my hard work had amounted to this, a few knick-knacks and a neck brace. All of my patient notes had already been confiscated; I imagined Leeland pouring over them in her office, learning all that I had learned; in spite of what the clown had done, I felt ill at the idea of her reading over the notes I had created detailing our private session, when he had told me about his childhood memories. I was angry that she should have a share in something so private, something that had been a secret between the two of us.

I should have left then. I should have taken my meagre belongings, handed over my staff card and left. But I couldn't resist. I took my key card from the pile and headed down to the maximum security wing.

It was late of an evening, just after night-time hand-over; the night-shift staff were unfamiliar with me, so no one batted an eye to see me on premises; just another doctor getting ready to clock out. Dad was still waiting outside in the car. I could picture him there, grinding his teeth, his hands clenched tight to the wheel.

The guard, half-asleep and underpaid, barely batted an eyelid when I flashed him my identity card and walked through the metal detectors. I was dressed smartly and I spoke the right jargon; the lower level guards paid no attention to the staff from above. He had no reason to suspect I shouldn't be there. Besides, why would anyone _want_ to be down here, with the worst criminal scum Gotham had to offer? That was the truth of it; no one came to the max facility by choice, inmate or doctor.

I recognised some of the names on the doors to the independent units, though I'd never seen any of these high-profile inmates during my time at Arkham. Waylon Jones, the crocodile man, a cannibal. Edward Nashton, The Riddler, a narcissist and one of Jeremiah's favourite former patients. Pamela Isley, a bioterrorist who stood at the door of her cell as I passed by her, watching me through the small window. She was beautiful, lean and red-headed. I wondered why anyone would feel the need to place her down here with these animals. Weakly, I lent her a smile. She eyed me coldly, then turned away.

It didn't take long to find his unit. The steel door was marked only with his patient number; someone, most likely one of the guards with a sense of humour, had stuck a post-it note below the sign which read, _'Pennywise'._

The steel grate of his cell window was sealed, unlike that of most of the other inmates. I slid down the small grate to the window of his cell. He approached the door inquisitively, and I stepped quickly to the side, out of his view.

"It's not often I get visitors," he said, loudly enough so that I could hear.

I swallowed, composing myself. "That doesn't surprise me." My voice was still hoarse.

"I thought it would be you," he said, and there was an edge of excitement in his voice. "I've missed you, Harley Quinzel."

Silence on my end.

"I must say, I'm surprised you're out and about so soon. Tired of all that hospital food, huh?"

More silence. He chuckled a little.

"That was a _joke,_ Harleen. Don't crack your pretty face, will you? Come on, stop teasing. I can't see you over there."

I did not move. He sighed in return. "I don't like the silent treatment... oh, or is it that you can't talk properly yet? I hope the bruises are healing nicely… sorry. Bad joke. Well, not really a joke, but still. _Sorry."_

More silence. He tried to fill it.

"Tell me, Harls; what do you see when you look at me?"

This time I do answer him. "I see a sick man."

"And what is it that you want from me?"

"Nothing. Not anymore. Before, I… I wanted to help you. That was all I wanted."

He smiled. "You know what I see when I look at you? That same sickness. And I want to help, Harley, I really do. That's all that I want."

"That's why you almost killed me? To _help_ me?!"

"Yes! To open your eyes and make you realise that _this is it._ Life is not a rehearsal. I wanted to show you that you could be dead at any moment, and could you honestly tell me that you'd be content with the life you've been living? That that's the legacy you'd leave behind, years confined in stuffy classrooms chasing after a degree so that you could spend even more years confined in a place like _this?!"_

I took a deep breath. "I won't be coming back to Arkham. The board are having me transferred over to Blackgate when I go back to college. I understand that Leeland is your therapist again."

"That vampire? I haven't seen her in weeks. I'm let out for an hour a day, for exercise. She's had me locked down here in solitary ever since our little incident."

I bowed my head. "I really thought that I could help you, that we were connecting. But... I was wrong. All that stuff you told me... was it even true?"

He paused. "What do you think?"

I don't answer that. I felt as though I couldn't.

"I… I have _nightmares_ about you," I confessed.

A laugh crept into his voice. "So you do think of me."

 _"_ _Screw you."_

"Sorry, sorry. Just another joke. It's a habit."

I moved then, so that I was stood in front of him, so that I could look him in his eyes. It was a shock to find that he'd been battered by the guards; his lip was split and both eyes black and swollen. Part of me pitied him. Another thought, _good._

"You're full of Jokes, Mr. J. Trouble is, you're the only one still laughing."

He grinned. I wanted to say more. I wanted an apology, an honest-to-God apology from the heart. I knew I wouldn't get one, so I instead bowed my head. "I have to go now."

"So soon?"

"Goodbye, Joker."

"Harley, _wait-!"_

I raised the grill and walked away. I handed my staff card in at reception, collected my humble belongings and walked out of that God-forsaken building for the last time.


	6. Chapter Five: An Arkham for Everyone

**Chapter Five:**

 **An Arkham for Everyone**

But all of that was almost two years ago now. Things have changed a lot since then.

I've almost finished my degree, and though things have been rocky, my submissions regarding the Joker and reflections upon my time at Arkham have made for papers my lecturers would be hard-pressed not to take notice of. The pressure is picking up as the course nears its end, but I'll get by just fine.

I moved back to Blüdhaven with my parents; the prison is within walking distance, though Dad insists upon picking me up every night when my shift finishes, in spite of the bad memories my new workplace holds for him. He says he's just happy to be looking at the prison from the outside these days.

Working at Blackgate is fine, mostly. My patients like me. I don't like them, though I stay smiley and try to see the positives. That's the difference between a madhouse and a prison; at least in an asylum criminal behaviour can be somewhat excused. _They're unwell, they're not normal. It's not their fault._ When mental illness isn't a factor, it's a lot harder to find sympathy with these men who have done such terrible things. I look forward to finishing my placement; once I'm qualified I'll get as far away from the penitentiary as possible. I don't think institution-based therapy is for me; maybe I'll set up my own free-lance business, or turn my hand to self-help books. I've always had a gift with words.

I have learned my lesson when it comes to my patients. Don't smile too brightly, don't let them get too close. I keep my panic button in my pocket, or on a snap-chord around my neck. I ensure that a guard is sitting in on all of my counselling sessions. I wear my hair down more often, and stop wearing the glasses that I never needed in the first place; Joker was right about that, at least. I've made a few friends working here, something which I could never say for myself at Arkham.

One morning, as I sit in the staffroom at lunch, my thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone; my heart skips a beat when I see that the screen reads _Doctor A._ After a moment of second-guessing, I answer the phone.

"Jeremiah?"

"Harleen. It's…" _Been too long,_ I think. Instead he says, "good to hear your voice."

The two of us haven't spoken in six months, maybe more. After what happened at Arkham- his family, my throat- the two of us have drifted far, far apart.

"Yours, too," I say. "How are things?"

"Better," he says, in the tone of a man who has turned to addiction to drown out his problems, a sound I recognise; he has the same shake to his voice that my Dad had used to have when he called from prison. "I'm back at the Asylum now."

"I've heard," I acknowledge. "You're the Warden again now, right?"

"Right. No more patients though, mainly administrative responsibilities and PR work. It's alright. Not as colourful as the work the two of us were doing. Leeland oversees the patients now." I can taste the venom in his tone. I feel much the same way towards the woman. "I'm sure you've also heard that the Asylum has had a makeover; the old manor needed a lot of work doing to it, so the board agreed a full refurbish, with a healthy donation from the Wayne Trust. Vamped up security, blast doors, iris recognition software, the works."

"Yes, of course." Everyone at Blackgate knows of the refurbishments, as for the last month the Elliot Wing of the prison had been cleared out, prisoners transferred so that two-hundred of Arkham's low-risk patients could be moved here whilst the manor building was being ripped apart and rebuilt. They are to be moved back next Friday afternoon, to the great relief of everyone at Blackgate. "I'm glad things have worked out."

"What I wanted to ask you is… well, the board is making a real event of it. Big gala party, fancy opening ceremony, everything. I wanted to invite you along, to see how things have changed. For the better."

There's a long pause.

"He'll be down in max, of course," Jeremiah says, more quietly. It wouldn't take a genius to fathom who he's referring to. "The party is next Saturday night, at the Monarch hotel. It'll be overflowing with Gotham's philanthropists and socialites, a real fancy to-do. The opening ceremony will be held on Monday afternoon, a couple of speeches and a tour of the new facilities before the patients you have over there are sent back to us. Full press-coverage, maybe even a buffet. Bruce Wayne himself is cutting the ribbon."

"I'll think about it," I say uncertainly. "How… how is he?"

Jeremiah is quiet for a long time. He speaks now in the tone of a dead man. "He's… regressed. Leeland is his key worker, which I doubt he's happy with. I've managed to convince her to keep him off the hard-core meds, though."

"At least that's something."

"Hmm. I haven't seen him in months. He had a really bad outburst a couple of months back, bit Frederick's ear off."

 _"_ _Jesus."_

"I know. We managed to keep it out of the public eye, and Frederick's still here; he's a tough cookie to crack. We've kept him down in isolation since."

"And is Leeland still conducting his sessions?"

"Officially, yes. There's paperwork and patient notes and all the right things which suggest she's making progress, more than we ever did. Feelings and childhood memories and all that bullshit." I'd never heard him swear before. "But I've talked to the guards, and she hasn't been down there in weeks. I think she's as frightened of him as we are."

I go quiet again. So does Jeremiah.

"Thank you for inviting me," I say, drawing the conversation to a close. He clears his throat, and sounds more chipper for it.

"No problem. Do try to come along, Harleen. It would be good to see you. I'll speak to you soon."

I say goodbye and hang up.

After two days of pondering and working the idea over in my head I call Jeremiah to let him know that yes, I would like to attend the ceremony. Not the Gala, though; I couldn't bare to sit alone at such a huge event, in amongst Gotham's best and brightest. All of them knowing who I was, passing the information on to their neighbours, so that the whispers would never die out; _her? Oh, that's Harleen Quinzel. Little more than an intern, in way over her head, made a stupid mistake- thought she of all people could get through to the Clown! Nearly got herself killed... stupid girl._

Jeremiah brightens when he hears my decision; early on Monday morning I take the train into Gotham, spend the morning drinking hot coco in a little café I used to visit on occasion. I haven't been back I Gotham since my last visit to the asylum. I see Arkham Island across the Iron Sister's bridge as I begin my walk there, my drink warming up my gloved hands. It is dreary and raining heavily, just as I remember it. Out of curiosity, I pass by my old apartment in the narrows; it looks worse than ever, though it is by no means the worst looking of the places around here. At least it still has glass in all its windows. I think of my former flatmate, wonder if I should stop by and say hello. I decide not to.

I arrive unintentionally early at the Asylum; I hand over my ID for inspection at the security gate, where the guard ticks off my name and directs me through. The press have already congregated, a small cluster of drab Gothamites and a couple of bored-looking reporters from the Metropolis newspaper. They pay me no attention as I pass them, lingering outside the front of the manor with the other guests as time ticks by. Eventually the important people show their faces- the board members, the guest speakers, and there, thinner and paler than I've ever seen him, Jeremiah. When he spots me I wave and head towards him, noticing how his footsteps waver slightly as he attempts the same. Despite his youth, he is leaning on a cane.

I hug him. He looks like a man who needs a hug.

"It's good to see you, Jerry."

"And you, Harleen." That same, dry tone, like he's forgotten what it feels like to smile. He smells faintly of whiskey, and something else less pleasant. "No glasses?"

"I'm wearing contacts," I lie. God, what a silly little fool I was.

"You're looking well."

"You too," I lie again, unconvincingly. We exchange pleasantries, get to talking about our lives now; the opportunity comes up to ask him about where he's living, and he tells me that he decided to stay in the huge country home. The house where his wife and child died. I imagine it to look much the same way he does now; tired, unloved. Decrepit. Empty.

He's soon called away by one of the board members to make arrangements; I find a space near the front of the crowd, glad that the rain has finally let up. There are about sixty of us lingering about, excluding the handful of paparazzi. I stand uncomfortably, arms folded, secretly hoping that someone will spark up a conversation, as I feel foolish stood here alone. When it becomes apparent that that isn't going to happen, I try to decipher what's new about the mansion. It looks much the same, aside from a coat of paint, a few scaffolding adjustments and a red ribbon strewed across the door; but as Jeremiah had assured me, the inside is sure to be a marvel of modern technology.

Leeland appears from the main institute building then, astute as ever. She spares me half a glance and a scowl before fussing about her staff, trying to discover why the ceremony has not begun yet. We are seven minutes off schedule.

Then an Aston Martin driven by a wizened old man pulls in through the drive, and the paparazzi at the side-lines burst with life, snapping photographs and yelling out as a man in his late thirties climbs out from the passenger's seat. He's broad, handsome, and smartly dressed- more than that, he's Bruce Wayne.

I've never been one for millionaires, especially not those who are only so because of their bloodline. I think it's somewhat instinctive, to feel some disdain for people who are better off than you but haven't had to work a day in their life for the privilege. But then again, he did lose his parents, watch his only family die, and no amount of inheritance could ever be worth that.

"Hubba Hubba," Pearl the receptionist remarks as he takes the stage, "guess the camera doesn't lie. He's just as gorgeous as the cover of GQ suggested."

"I don't know," I muse, "he's a little… bulky for me. Too much muscle."

Pearl shakes her head. "There's no pleasing some people. Let's see if he's got the brains to match it."

For once, he doesn't have a pretty girl or two on his arm. He waves briefly to the cameras, brushing aside a few scandalous questions before taking his place at the podium in front of the mansion. He gives a brief but passionate introductory speech on the importance of this archaic institute, before introducing the next speaker and taking a seat in the front row with the other acclaimed guests. We sit through two more speeches, one from Jeremiah and one from a guest speaker named Hugo Strange, who is apparently proving to be quite the revolutionary over at Star Labs, before Bruce, beaming from ear to ear with a winner's smile, ascends the steps to cut the ribbon and announce the new-and-improved institute officially open.

I join in with the applause, which slowly dissipates as the cameras flash in a whirlwind and the security team begin to escort us guests and a select few members of the press inside for a tour of the new-fangled institution. We're handed out bright pamphlets which detail all the changes that have been made.

 _"'_ _An Arkham for Everyone,'"_ the visitor beside me says quietly, reading the cheesy cover slogan from his own leaflet and shaking his head. The sudden interraction startles me; I turn to find him smiling my way, and there's a flutter in my stomach. He's young, dark-haired, and has a press badge hung about his neck. "Who's the genius who came up with that one?! Surely an Arkham for everyone is just what we _don't_ want. There's enough loonies in this town already without locking the rest of its citizens up as well."

"Makes you crazy just thinking about it," I murmur back, and he smirks. He's quite my type. I look away, smiling.

"So, do you work here?"

"Used to," I say. He shares my Blüdhaven accent.

"Props to you. I couldn't do it. All the crazies screaming at night."

"It's not so bad."

"I doubt that. How did you put up with it?"

"let's just say that silence is golden, but duct tape is silver."

He laughs aloud, his sharp brown eyes glinting. "So you quit the grind here to become a comedian, huh?"

"Something like that," I grin.

"I'll stay near you then, save getting lost in this place. We Blüds should stick together."

"Is my accent really that strong?" I cringe.

"Well, you can take the girl out of Blüdhaven..."

The two of us walk side-by-side, not saying a word until he leans closer and asks me,

"So, you busy after this?"

 _Oh God,_ I think as we're lead through the halls, _he's asking me out._ Struck by his forwardness, I ramble.

"Uh, I'm not sure what I'm doing."

"Fancy going for a drink?"

I laugh dismissively, my cheeks burning. "I don't even know your name."

"Jack," he grins, flashing his nametag. He really is very handsome. "Jack Ryder."

"Ryder. That's a cool name. I'm Harleen."

"Harleen. That's a cool name, too. Do you go by Harley?"

I grimace a little. "Do I strike you as the biker-chick type?"

He laughs. "Maybe not. But just think; if we got married, you could be _Harley Ryder._ Pretty cool, huh?"

"Vroom vroom," I say with a nervous laugh, glowing like a bulb on a Christmas tree.

"Okay, Harleen. You have a think about that drink while I snap photographs of the entrance hall. In the meantime, can I at least give you my number?"

I'm blushing furiously, giddy as a schoolgirl being asked to prom. "You're going to be here anyway, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but I get lost easily. Pretty please."

"Okay," I laugh. He takes the phone from me, insistent about putting in the number himself. He types it in, grinning.

"Awesome," he says, handing me back the phone. "Have a think about that drink, then maybe we'll go ahead with that wedding. I'll see you around."

"Toodles," I say, watching his back as he leaves and smiling to myself like an idiot. Stuff like that doesn't happen to me very often. I turn my attention back to the tour, but my mind is somewhere else.

Jeremiah leads the tour, which goes on for a long time, talking as animatedly as one can about self-locking doors, electrolysed flooring and heartrate monitors, as the guards shuffle around us to ensure that no one goes astray. There are currently no patients in the unit, Jeremiah explains to calm the less initiated among us, as they are all still in Blackgate awaiting transfer.

"Blackgate," a voice says over my shoulder; it's Jack, having slipped back into the crowd. My breath catches in my throat, the butterflies returning. "Whose idea was that? Why not put them on the psych ward of Gotham General? At least the staff there would be equipped."

"Gotham General's already full," I tell him. "Blackgate's got way more capacity for dealing with these sort of patients than you'd think."

"You've been inside?"

"Yeah, that's where I work now…"

Then it hits me like a bullet in the chest. My stomach sinks; he's a reporter, and I'm an idiot. Charm and manipulation are in their nature. He knows who I am, of course. He must know. With the reputation of this place and big names like Bruce Wayne in the building, most of the press have glazed over me, but maybe his boss has given him a little side mission. After all, the Gotham Gazette would be fools to miss out on a juicy scoop from the Joker's old shrink and victim. I'm sure he'll be revelling in the idea of a promotion in the works after getting some inside intel from me after a drink or two at the local bar. Ashamed, angry and embarrassed, played for the fool, I make my excuses and shuffle a little deeper into the crowd at the next opportunity. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

The new technology throughout the manor is undeniably impressive. The problem is, it's all for show; the manor holds only thirty percent of the asylum's inmates, and then only the non-violent patients. The money would have been much better spent on the new builds, constructed in the seventies to accommodate Arkham's ever-growing crowd, now home to the maniacs and freaks which Gotham has grown infamous for. Out of sight and out of mind, as they say.

We pass through into the shared recreation room, the doors sliding neatly shut behind us. Jeremiah directs us to the various facilities; television screens built into the walls, bolted furniture, and a separate sensory unit filled with bean bags, lights and a built-in sound system. I imagine sinking into one of the cushions and drifting off to sleep; lost in my daydream, it takes me a moment to notice the disruption of the overhead speaker system.

It crackles above us, a painfully high robotic screech wailing through the speakers. Several of the patrons make sounds of alarm, muttering over the fault as the broken audio becomes louder; there's an odd gargling sound like someone clearing their throat and then, finally, a voice.

 _"Hellllloooo?!_ Is this thing on?"

The room goes silent. I feel the blood wash from my face as I stare towards the disembodied voice. My eyes lock on to Jeremiah's, who looks equally terrified; there's no question who the voice belongs to.

"Can everybody here me? Good. Up until about five minutes ago, it was my intention to flood the room you're in with mustard gas and laugh as you all drowned in your own bodily fluids, then settle down with a glass of hot milk before the Batman arrived to kick my teeth in. However- _A-a-ah,_ don't touch that door, sonny-boy," he says, and I look to see one of the orderlies about to swipe his key-card and release us from the room. "I've had a few home-made bombs installed around the place, my own gift towards the renovation of this madhouse that we all call home. Open those doors and you'll be blown into a trillion pieces. As I was saying-"

Panic swallows the room; people scuttle left and right, friends cling to one another, nurses give shrieks of terror. I look to Bruce Wayne, who's yelling for everyone to stay calm, with little success.

"He's bullshitting!" Jack interrupts, from across the room. He seems to be talking directly to Bruce. "There's no way he'd have had time to rig the room like that!"

"Do you really want to take that risk?" Wayne calls back, sternly. He continues trying to calm everyone down, but goes unheard over the panic and Joker's rambling via the speakers.

"Gracious as I am, I have instead decided to flood you out with a nice bout of my own home-brewed giggle gas, guaranteed to leave you smiling. Oh- what's that I hear?"

My phone vibrates in my breast pocket, almost scaring me out of my skin.

"Is that a phone ringing?"

I fumble with it, my hands shaking as I stare at the withheld number.

"Answer it," his voice demands.

With shaking fingers, I accept the call. He waits for me to speak.

"Hello?" I say, my voice choked.

"Oh, is it good to hear the sound of your voice. How's it hanging, Harls?"

"Stop this. Please."

"Pretty please with a cherry on top? Hmm, let me think… no. Now I want you to listen very carefully, okay? Go into the sensory room. There's a needle filled with clear liquid in the first drawer of the cabinet to your right. I want you to inject it."

"Like hell," I spit at him. Someone has the sense to push the room's panic button- the whirring is almost deafening.

"You're going to inject it," he yells this time, and I'm not sure if it's through anger or a need to be heard over the sirens. "You'll do it, or everyone in that room is going to pay the price. Understood?"

I'm silent.

 _"Understood?!"_

"I.. how did you..."

"Don't make me angry, Harley. I'm having such a nice day today, I wouldn't want you to spoil it for me. Things won't go well for these people if you do. I'm a terror when I'm roused. Go alone. Do it now."

And what can I do but do as I'm told?

On shaky legs I head for the sensory room, the crowd barely noticing me as I go. The sirens still wail as people panic at the doors.

I push through the crowd and into the sensory room, closing the door behind me. I bring the phone back up to my ear, now that it is quieter.

"Is it… is it going to kill me?"

"What?! Of course not! There are a lot of things I'd love to do to you, Harley, but killing you is not one of them... at least not today, anyway. Besides, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. Stay on the phone," he instructs, and I hold it under my ear as I pull open the cabinet drawer. "Have you got it?"

"Not yet-"

"Then _hurry up!"_

"Alright!" I say, drawing out the needle. At least it looks clean. "I… I've got it."

"Atta girl. Now stab it in."

"Please don't make me-"

"Are you not listening? If you don't do this, I'll kill every one of them. Do you really think I'm _bluffing-?!"_

 _"No-!"_

"Then _do it_!"

I hold the needle in a shaking hand, and look to my wrist to find a vein. I hold the cold metal against my flesh and take deep breaths.

"Any time today, Miss Quinzel."

A hand clamps over my wrist, another grabbing the hand which holds the needle. The movement makes me jump, and the phone falls from where it was held between my chin and shoulder. It's Jack Ryder, his eyes full of fire.

"What is that?"

I look at the vial of liquid ready to enter my bloodstream. My eyes begin to well. When I speak, my voice cracks like a pubescent boys.

"I... I don't know."

He pulls the needle away from me, drops it to the ground and stomps on it. I gasp aloud as it shatters and the lurid green liquid bleeds out into the carpet. Muffled yells can be heard from the phone, face-down on the floor. Jack picks it up and holds it at a distance from his own ear. I can hear Joker ranting and raving, but cannot pick out any specific words but my name, screamed in rage.

 _"_ _Eat a dick, freak!"_ Jack barks, and hangs up the phone. I stare at him, unsure of what to say or do next.

"What have you done?" I breathe, barely registering what is happening.

"It's called saving your ass," he retorts, and takes a stride towards the door. "No thank you necessary. Now let's get out of here before-"

As he reaches the threshold of the doors, they begin to quickly slide together; sense would have him jump forward and through the gap, there's time just enough, but instead, instinct takes over and he lurches backwards away from the colliding doors. They clamp shut before him, and, stunned, he gives a shake of his head.

"…Balls."


	7. Chapter Six: Takeover

**Chapter Six:**

 **Takeover**

The two of us stare at the closed doors.

"What are we going to do?"

My question is drowned out by a sudden screaming from the other room, muffled through the doors but still audible enough to make my blood run cold. More and more screams join the fold; Jack begins to bash against the metal doors with his fists, yelling obscenities.

"He's released the toxin!" Jack yells, buckling against the doors fruitlessly. "Help me find something to get these doors open!"

"That's not a good idea if he's pumped the place full of lethal gas-!"

"What, so we just let them die?!"

My heart thuds within my chest. He's right, of course, but what can we do?

"There's nothing in here, it's the sensory unit," I explain.

"Oh, there's always something."

"With the new Wayne Tech security we'd never get it open!"

He mumbles something about Wayne Industries under his breath. There is a tiny gap below the door to keep the room ventilated, and through it a fine yellow vapour begins to seethe.

"Brilliant," he hisses, shrugging off his jacket and twisting it into a sausage shape. I do the same with my blazer, and between us we are able to block the gap and prevent any more of the toxin entering the room.

On the floor, my phone is vibrating into the carpet. The two of us exchange looks.

"Go ahead," he says, "can't make it any worse."

I answer the phone. On the other end, Joker is calm, controlled.

"You really are trying my patience, Harleen."

"Please, you have to get them out of there-!"

"I told you not to test me."

He hangs up.

"Asshole," I spit aloud, and shove the phone back into my pocket.

The screaming stops, eerily quickly. Its last remnants are matched with hysteric giggling and the thunder of footsteps, muffled yells and sobs which quickly fade. Jack breathes a sigh of relief.

"He's got them out."

"Who? Joker?" I cannot believe that he listened to me, complied with my request to release them.

Jack shrugs, looking unconvinced. "Maybe. Either way, they're out." I breathe a sigh of relief, not entirely sure but choosing to believe his declaration anyway. "Question is, how the heck are you and I going to get out of here?"

Jack begins to tap at the walls, identifying where they are hollow. He finds a void and begins to chip away at the wall with a foot removed from the metal cabinet. He quickly breaks through the plasterboard and snaps a portion of it away to reveal a mechanical box in the wall.

"Here we go," he says, prising the door of the box open with my house keys. He begins to fiddle with the wiring inside, trying to disable the doors.

"How do you know all this stuff?" I ask, stunned by his resourcefulness. He wipes sweat from his brow, smiles back at me.

"I'm a reporter, sneaking around and tampering is part of the job description."

"Right next to _'being a ninja?'"_

He grins. "Right… _there!"_

There's a metallic thud as the doors bend to his will, the circuit keeping them closed overridden.

"That was pretty cool," I confess.

"Give me a hand with this," he says, and between us we manage to pull the doors apart.

We cover our mouths with our clothing as we leave the room. Jack was right about the party in the other room escaping; the room is empty, for all but a sickly yellow haze and the bodies of two people who the escape was too late for, an orderly and a board member in a rouched purple dress. I swallow back bile. It is the first time I have ever seen a corpse up close before. I move to check the bodies for a pulse, but there is nothing at work beneath the tepid skin. Their eyes are wide and wet, their mouths curled into twisted smiles and smeared with blood. We close their eyes and cover them with the jackets we left beneath the door before moving on, taking the orderlies' key card with us.

Again, the phone in my pocket buzzes.

"You don't have to answer him," Jack advises, and I agree, still shaky from the bodies. It continues to buzz, however, and suddenly the overhead speakers crackle to life.

 _"RING! RING!"_ Comes Joker's voice, yelling at the top of his lungs, _"ANSWER THE PHONE, DAMN IT!"_

I scramble for the phone, putting it on loudspeaker before holding it near my ear.

"I'm here," I say, my voice cracked.

"Yes, I can see that," Joker spits, "you and your _boyfriend_ managed quite the daring escape. Pretty impressive skill set for a media rat… fancy a job on my team, handsome Jack? I promise to pay better than the Gazette."

"Go to hell," Jack says, looking up at the security cameras. "He can see us."

"Of course I can see you, pretty boy. You too, pretty girl. I'm sending some of my goons down there to give you the welcome you deserve; it's amazing how easy it is to find cannon fodder in a madhouse. Big, violent, and easily manipulated. I've no idea why I didn't think of it before!"

"Hang up," Jack says to me; on the other line, Joker laughs at the suggestion.

"What do you want?" I ask him.

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

"You killed those people."

"I did warn you that I would."

"I was doing as you asked!"

"Yes, until Superman there interrupted-"

"What was that stuff?" I ask, desperate for the answer. "In the syringe."

"Oh, don't worry about that now. I'll be seeing you, Harley."

He cuts the call, and the two of us set about finding our way out of the madhouse. With the help of the dead orderlies' key card, we are able to get around with relative ease, though the journey from the sensory room to the outside is not a short one; the place is a converted mansion, after all, and we were an hour deep into the tour; my knowledge of the low-risk patient building, the face of the asylum, is limited. The mansion is eerily empty, not a soul in sight. Muttering to himself, Jack whips out his phone and holds it to his ear.

"I'm fine. I'm heading up there now. No, I haven't seen him. Will do."

He hangs up the phone. I ask who he was talking to; he says never mind that, lets concentrate of getting out of here, which I take to mean, _none of your business,_ but seeing as the two of us are stuck together in a potentially life-threatening situation, I think anything either of us does is very much one another's business.

"Still after a scoop?" I infer, imagining it to have been his boss on the other line. "That why you're still on the lookout?"

"Not quite," he says, vague as ever, as I swipe us through another door.

"What, then?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes! We're in this together, if you-"

 _"_ _Shh."_

I don't need telling twice, as the sound of people talking stops me dead in my tracks. Loud laughter, boisterous voices.

"Could be the cops," I whisper as the two of us pull back around a corner.

"Could be," Jack quips, "but I'd rather bet my money on it being the aforementioned goons. Why bother coming after us when they can just wait at the door?"

I swear under my breath. The windows are all barred on the lower levels of the asylum, so there's no chance of us sneaking out that way. Jack beings typing into his phone again, conversing with some unknown force.

"Time for a detour."

I follow him as he leads us deeper into the asylum, as high up and as far north as we can go. We have to move quickly as Joker can keep track of us on the cameras, and will undoubtedly send his men in after us once he figures out we're not going to walk into his trap. The only moment of rest we're allowed is the journey in the elevator up to the top floor, where we find a door leading up to the roof marked _RESTRICTED ACCESS_. There is no key card pad here; the door is heavily chained and bolted and requires good old-fashioned keys.

"Don't suppose you've got a hairgrip on you," Jack asks unenthusiastically. I shake my head. "Well then," he says, turning back the way we came, "guess we'll have to improvise. This way."

We take the elevator down a level and wind up in a room which looks out onto the manor's gardens. The space we find ourselves in is an ornate meeting room, unlike most other rooms in the manor which have been converted to white walls and tiled flooring, far more clinical than they once were. This room still has embossed oxblood wallpaper, speckled green carpets and a mahogany mantelpiece; garish, but once the height of fashion. No security cameras, unlike almost every other room in the place. Above the out-of-use fireplace hangs a portrait of the late Arkham family; there is certainly a resemblance between Jeremiah and his great-grandfather, Amadeus. The windows are beautiful, panelled with stained glass.

Jack has little regard for austere windows, and when one of them refuses to give, makes quick work of smashing it through with a replica bust of some do-gooder or another. The sound of the glass smashing is enough to wake the dead; Jack kicks out the remaining glass with his foot and pulls himself on to the window ledge.

"Wait here," he says, reaching up for the ledge above him.

"Are you crazy?!" I hiss, "It's not safe, you'll fall!"

"It's not safe being locked in a loony bin with Coco the clown hunting you, either. Besides, I have a plan. _Trust me."_

I stare open-mouthed, defeated.

"I'll be five minutes, tops," he tells me, one hand holding him in place as the other punches digits into his phone. "Any sign of any trouble… hide."

With that he pulls himself out of my view; my heart is stone as I stick my head out of the window, yelling for him to be careful as he scales the building with baffling ease, laughing as he goes and calling out, _"Always!"_

Within moments, he disappears over the ledge.

I sit down at the head of the board table, and try to figure out what this plan of his could be, aside from using his superior gymnastic skills to abandon me here and have himself saved by police helicopter. I was quite the gymnast myself, back in my school days. There's a chance I'd be able to follow him up there, if I were I brave or desperate enough to make the climb.

But he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't leave me. _Would he?_

There's little time to ponder, as noises from the hallway set my heart on fire. Footsteps, talking. Gruff, unpleasant laughter. I make a snap decision; there's no time to go to the window, to shout for Jack. What could he do, even if I did? So instead I drop to the floor beneath the board table, then slide atop the chairs, pulling my legs up onto the seat behind me so that I am lying flat across the two chairs, face down in the red velvet seat. I hold my breath, and pray that this will be enough for me to go unnoticed.

Their voices get louder as they approach the room, though the door makes it impossible to distinguish what they are saying. Once it opens, however, it's all too easy to hear their words.

"-snatch the little bitch before she finds her way out of here," I hear as the door opens. "They're on this floor, or at least they were five minutes ago, J was following them on the surveillance."

The two take note of the broken window; the talking man springs across the room, cursing the whole way. I see two pairs of feet from my position, clad in grey asylum-issue pumps.

"You've got to be kiddin' me," the first man barks. The two begin to argue, the slower of the two arguing that Jack and I must have jumped out of the window and escaped, retorting once the other man points out that no one could simply walk away from a fall of six floors, that we must have used a rope.

"There's no rope, idiot," the other man growls.

"Maybe they climbed up onto the roof, then," the slower goon says. The other man tells him not to be so ridiculous.

"They've smashed it to make it look as though they've escaped," the smarter man declares. "Unfortunately for them, though, one of us is not an _idiot._ They're still here!"

Adrenaline hits me in a rush as the talking man walks around to the other side of the table and pulls out one of the seats opposing me, his hands slapping against the mahogany above as he sits.

"You'd better start lookin'," he says.

"Me?"

I know then exactly how it's about to play out. I try to brace myself for it, to little avail.

The other goon takes hold of the chair which my torso is resting on, and yanks it forwards.

 _"_ _You_ look-!"

I drop my legs from the other chair for some form of support and manage to twist my body around enough to at least be facing the goon when he realises I'm there. He is large, bald, and vacant, his face smeared with rushed Auguste-style clown makeup, his body clothed in the rough cotton of the asylum's patient uniform. His eyebrows knit and he reaches down a huge hand; I push myself into a sitting position and push away his huge arm, to little avail, as his partner yells in confusion- _what the-?! Grab her, you idiot!_ \- and, despite my efforts, I'm hauled upwards and slammed down on the mahogany table top. I manage a kick at my assailant, striking him across the chest with my foot and catching his arm, where the heel of my shoe cuts into the skin. He curses at me, and I'm pulled by my arm across the table top and stood upright as I scream at the top of my lungs, twisting in the firm hold of the more quick-witted of the two. He is more striking, with a head of red hair; I stand taller than him in my heels. I recognise neither of them, but the red-head recognises me.

"Miss Q," he says, a dangerous smirk playing on his carelessly painted face. He brings a thumb up to the corner of my mouth and pulls it up into a smile. "About time you showed up."

I punch him in the face. For a second I think he's about to punch me back, but instead he pushes me to the other goon and, holding his bleeding nose, swipes the door with his keycard. Panic gnaws at me like a ravenous beast as I'm pulled out of the room after him. I think of Jack, up on the roof, and cling to his words; _trust me. I have a plan._

"She cut me," the slow goon mutters, staring at the gouge my heel left in his arm as he pulls me down the corridor after his partner.

"Oh, _boo-hoo._ Don't worry, Hellsinger, she'll get her comeuppance soon enough. You must have really pissed off the boss for him to get so mad on tracking you down." The red-head, it quickly becomes apparent, loves to talk. I notice that he's missing a hand, and wonder if it's his tongue that lost him it. "Used to do some work for Joker back in the old days. Jumped at the opportunity to do it again. He's a good boss, if you're smart enough not to piss him off. Pays good. I got busted after a heist gone wrong and they threw me in here; nothin' wrong with me, I'm as sane as the next man, but it was this or Blackgate, and there's no way they were throwin' me in _that_ shit hole."

He continues his monologue as he leads us towards the lift, itching at the back of his neck with his stump. As each floor rolls by, I picture myself being drawn closer and closer into the clown's clutches. I try to remember what I said to him, that last time we crossed paths, when I visited him at his cell in the maximum security unit. It's difficult to think right now, to remember all that was said, but I remember him laughing. You could never forget a thing like that.

I tell myself that, maybe, I will be able to talk some sense into him. I know it's foolish, that I'm way out of my depth, but the idea comforts me still; no matter what else happened, I could still get through to him, somehow. He told me about his childhood, shared with me his feelings, which is more than any of the top psychologists he's been shacked up with could ever claim. He didn't kill me, when he had me pinned to the floor with his hands around my throat. Something stopped him, made him change his mind, which has to count for something. I have to believe there's some sort of hope.

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket; the sound is audible. The red-head holds his hand out for the device. When I refuse to comply he snatches it from my pocket, reading the screen.

" _'Jack Ryder.'_ Who's that, your boyfriend?"

The blood freezes my veins for a moment; the cell begins to vibrate again, and I reach out far enough to swipe the thing from the red-head's grip, and the screen reads Jack, and I'm scrambling to answer it, running towards the elevator to give me a few seconds more; he says my name, and I tell him I need help, help, _help-_

 _BAM!_ The brutish henchman grabs me by the scruff of my neck and wrangles me backwards, slamming me against the concrete wall to the side of the elevator, where he smacks the phone from my grip and grabs me by the shoulder. I kick at him in my attempt to get free, and he growls at me like a rabid dog.

"Aaron, that's enough!" The red head yells.

"If you hurt me, he'll kill you," I say bluntly, struggling to get away as the red-head jogs up beside him. The brute is either too thick to understand or too stupid to care, and slams his palm against my forehead, smashing my skull against the concrete wall behind me. The world bleeds black, my head buzzing and lit up like a firework. I moan aloud, holding my head in my hands, hear the red-head calling his partner an idiot yet again. Amongst the pain, Joker's voice bursts through the overhead speakers.

 _"A-a-ah, play nice, you two. Remember, Uncle J is always watching… I don't want to be in receipt of any_ damaged goods. _Now hurry up, will you?!"_

"Yes boss!" the red-head calls, a little too enthusiastically. He smacks his partner up the side of the head. "You'll get us killed, _idiot."_

He turns to me then. "Gotta say, missy, I was expecting less of a fight. From what I've heard you usually just take it."

Then, unexpectedly, the elevator doors open. I turn my head in surprise; inside stands a black-clad figure, wielding two batons and a daring grin. The red-head, stood by the doors, stares at the figure in confusion.

 _"Boo."_

"Oh, _shi-!"_

The figure holds in his hands two metal batons, buzzing with electricity; he reaches out and strikes the red-head across the legs with the weapon, and he goes down like a dead weight. As he falls his assailant pulls him inside the lift where he collapses on the elevator floor. His brutish partner bursts into action, shoving me out of the way with a roar and charging at the assailant, but before he can make a grab for him the lithe figure gambols beneath his legs, springs upright and delivers a sharp double-footed kick to the oaf's buttocks before jabbing him in the back with the electrolysed batons, causing him to reel forwards into the elevator.

"Going up, asshole," the figure says before either man has the chance to recover, slapping a hand against the elevator button and closing the doors upon the two, sending them on their merry way.

He straightens himself up, deactivates the batons and holsters them against his back, over a steel-coloured backpack. I stare wide-mouthed as he turns to me with a familiar grin. He is wearing a mask over his eyes, glimmering in his blue-and-black armour, but I recognise him.

"Jack," I say, in disbelief.

He smiles; grins, even. "Miss me?"

"What are you… _how?"_

"I put a tracker on your phone when I punched my digits in… don't get mad."

"What are you talking about? You've been _tracking_ me?"

"We'd guessed that Joker might try and pull something, and you were high-risk, with your past confrontation with the clown. We wanted to make sure you were safe; as a resident of Blüdhaven, you're in my jurisdiction, which, I like to think, makes your safety my responsibility."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. _"Who are you?"_

He grins. "I'm Nightwing."

My face stays blank. He frowns.

"Oh, come on… _Nightwing?"_ He acts as though repeating it will change the fact that I've never heard of him.

"Where did you get the leotard?"

He looks down at his attire with a frown. "It isn't a _leotard._ I had one of my colleagues do a drop-off on the rooftop."

"So you're a reporter by day, Vigilante by night?"

"I'm not a reporter," he smiles. "Name's not Jack, either. Can't tell you my real name, it's against the rules."

"There are rules?"

"Oh, you have no idea. Quickly, this way."

We turn left down a poorly-lit corridor; the overhead speakers crackle, an unfathomable word or two is sputtered in Joker's voice, and then the system fails again.

"Sounds like he's experiencing a few technical difficulties. That's some luck, at least," I say.

"Less luck, more the disruptor signal I'm channelling through the building," he says, "should make it hard for the clown to communicate with his lackeys, and we don't have to listen to him screaming bloody murder, which is a bonus."

"Where the hell do you get all this stuff?"

He smiles. "Friends in high places."

I infer what I need to from his statement. "So you're working with the Bat? I thought that Robin kid was his sidekick."

"It's complicated. And I'm not a sidekick."

"I'm surprised the he hasn't shown up yet."

"Yeah, well, like I said… it's complicated. This way."

We stop at the door to a doctor's office, one whose name I don't recognise. The key card won't work on a private door, so instead Nightwing pulls out one of the batons and sends an electric charge through its circuit. The door swings open obediently, and as we step inside he asks,

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

I answer no, as he pushes the desk against the wall and begins to meddle with the grate of a large vent built high into it using a tool that he's pulled from his metal backpack. Soon enough the grate gives, and he passes it down to me before holding out a hand to help me up onto the desk. I give him a quizzical look.

"It's the only way for us to get off the clown's visual radar. He's got cameras all over the place, there's no way we can evade his goons much longer; fighting off those two clowns was simple enough, but I don't fancy going up against a whole gang of them."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask, removing my heeled shoes.

"Sure, why not. Besides, I have a plan. Ladies first."

Reluctantly I oblige, struggling awkwardly to pull myself up into the vent. Nightwing helps by pushing me up, and I do the same for him, pulling on his hands.

"You're pretty strong for a girl," he says, in a complementary fashion, as the two of us settle into the grate.

"I did a lot of gymnastics when I was younger."

"Me too. Something else we have in common, aside from being ridiculously good-looking. You still fancy going for that drink once all this is over?"

I shoot him a smirk, though of course he can't see it, being behind me. "So you were being serious about that, then?"

"Well, I needed an excuse to bug your phone, but yes, I was still very serious."

I smile to myself, thinking of how I had convinced myself that he was a slimy reporter, trying to get a scoop on me. I feel like an idiot now, knowing what I do. "You're a real joker."

"Nope, I think the guy trying to kill us already has that one covered. You were his doctor, weren't you?"

"Sort of."

"He tried to kill you."

"I wouldn't be the first."

"Well, you're the first to survive it," he says as we slowly edge through the warm vent. "Why did he let you live?"

"That's a question I've asked myself a hundred times," I admit. "I still have no idea."

He leads the two of us through the maze using instructions which are being fed to him via the device attached to his wrist, by some unknown third party; when I ask him who it is helping him, he says that it's classified.

We crawl for a long time; the more we crawl, the more stuffy and uncomfortable the vents become. My thin clothes are plastered to my body- I can only imagine how Jack- no, _Nightwing-_ is feeling, clad in all that armour.

"Any idea how much longer?"

"Not long now. As soon as it's done I'll get you out of here."

I pause in the vent. "We're not leaving?"

He drops his voice to a whisper. "Not just yet. I didn't get dressed up in this ridiculous outfit for nothing. I've come prepared. Turn left and we're here."

Slowly I move down the final vent; half-way along it is a grate, like many we have passed, which leads into a room in the asylum. This grate is different, however; behind this one is the room containing hostages.

There are twenty or so of them, all bound and kneeling, some conscious, others not, the rest having escaped when the doors were opened. Around and in between them stand thugs with painted faces, armed with weapons of every kind; how on earth did he get them in here? I recognise several of the people in the room from earlier, including the guest speakers and Bruce Wayne, who is bent double, unconscious, and covered in blood on both his face and torso. Two goons stand either side of him; he must have put up quite the fight, and has been paying the price for it. Several of my former colleagues kneel amongst the masses, their doctor's coats sprayed with blood and other horrors. There are three corpses in the room.

"No clown," Nightwing mutters beside me, surveying the room as he removes his aluminium backpack. "Not ideal, but it will have to do. You might want to move out of the way."

"What are you planning to do?"

"There's a shit ton of knock-out gas in my pack; I'm going to release it through the grate, take out the goons and the hostages. Once the main threat is neutralised, the cops can swarm the place and deal with any stragglers. Shouldn't take too long." He strips a metal seal away from the pack to reveal a pocket with a sleek black gas mask, which he pulls down over his own face before turning to me.

"I've only got one of these things… sorry. I'll pull you out of here once I've dealt with this, then you and I are going for that drink." He smiles, to reassure me. "In the meantime, sleep tight; it'll be over before you know it."

"No, wait..."

Nightwing twists a nob within the aluminium flasks, holding it up against the grate. A faint hissing envelops the room as the gas is quietly expelled, and my vision begins to blur; Nightwing reaches out a hand to lower me down as my muscles slacken, his eyes on mine, and within moments, the world bleeds black.


	8. Chapter Seven: Crisis Point

**Chapter Seven** **:**

 **Crisis Point**

I am in a hospital bed, staring up at a white ceiling. The walls are white, the furniture is white, the bedsheets and my hospital gown, too. A white-haired Doctor stands at the foot of my bed, and says my name.

"Harley?"

He explains to me that I am safe. It's all over. The hostages are safe, the clown captured. I look around the beds on the ward to see that it is true; an impossible row of survivors, all of them sleeping. Still unconscious from the gas, the doctor explains. Nightwing's plan worked.

In the bed next to mine is Bruce Wayne. His skin is glowing red, as though with a fever, and blood has begun to seep through his bandages. I ask the Doctor if he will be okay, and a different voice answers to tell me yes, he will be. The Doctor has gone, and Jeremiah stands in his place. He somehow seems even thinner now than he was this morning; he sits at the foot of my bed and removes his glasses. My head feels foggy, unbalanced.

"There were… complications," he explains. "It's hard to find the words to break this to you, Harley, so I'll just…"

He produces a mirror from behind his back. As he hands it to me, I note that he too calls me Harley, which he has never done before. I take the mirror, and raise it up to my face.

My skin is white as a ghost's, bluish in the cool clinical light. My lips are blood-red, eyes wide and bulging. I am grinning like a madman, like _that_ madman, and I cannot stop. I scream aloud, and Jeremiah tries to wrestle the mirror from me; I hurl it at him in horror, and when it hits it is he rather than the mirror which shatters. I watch as he fractures into a thousand pieces and falls into the floor, into the world, and I fall after him, clinging to the posts of my hospital bed with cold, white hands.

I awake with a jolt, that horrid free-fall feeling which sinks your stomach and causes your heart to race within your chest. Panicked, disorientated, I try to place where I am; another white room, with white walls and a white ceiling. In front of me is a desk, also white. On that desk is a metal fixture, reflecting the light of the white strobe light overhead. It is then that I realise where I am. I know this room. I have spent constant hours here, but I've never seen it from this side before.

I am in the therapy room.

Joker's therapy room, to be exact, where Jeremiah and I spent countless hours revelling in the clown's words, scrawling notes, laughing at his jokes in spite of ourselves. Opposite me is the door, and either side of it, the same two orderlies stand, their hands bound behind their backs and their mouths taped shut. Frederick, with his missing ear. He has grown a beard, and looks haggard, his eyes alive with misery.

This cannot be real. I have to be dreaming still. I try to move and find that I cannot; I look down to see that I am tied into a straight jacket.

This is a nightmare. It has to be, for all our sakes. I wait for things to become more surreal, for the walls to start melting, but they do not. Things stay the same, try to convince me that they are real. I buckle in my seat, cry out, but no words form. My heart, once again, thuds at the speed of a racehorse. The door opens. The doctor walks in.

But he is no Doctor. Red-lipped, white-skinned, grinning. Styled hair, freshly coloured, the green of basil leaves. Thin wrists carrying strong, sinewy hands. I know how strong those hands are. I feel the ghost of them at my throat. They are killer's hands, killer's wrists, killer's eyes, all of it crowned with a killer smile. _Please, let this be a nightmare._

The clown, fitted with a doctor's coat and a pair of spectacles, sits down in the seat which should belong to me. He spreads out a collection of papers across the desk in silence, then presses a button on the desk's tape recorder and clears his throat.

"Doctor J interviewing patient Harleen Quinzel," he says to the device. "Before we begin the session, I would like to note that the patient appears… distressed."

A sound escapes my lips like a sob. I am crying. I feel the tears swelling and streaming hot down my face. My composure is gone; I am tired, I can't be brave any longer, pretend to him that I'm stronger than I am.

"So, Miss Quinn- how are we feeling today?"

I stare blindly at him as he waits, patiently, for an answer. I do not give him one. If only this were not reality, but I can feel it; the straps constricting my sides, the ticking of the clock on the wall, those manic, living eyes. How could I dream up those eyes?

"Not very talkative today, are we? That's alright. How about some word association?"

I compose myself enough to ask him to stop. He tries not to chuckle, but he cannot help himself. He clears his throat in an attempt to cover his lapse and shuffles his paperwork.

"Let's try this one; _insanity."_

"Stop it."

"Oh, _she speaks!_ Work with me here; _insanity."_

"I'm not playing your stupid games!"

He reaches into the doctor's coat and pulls out a handgun, which he rests at the bridge of my nose. My entire body seizes; I fight to keep a clear head as I stare down the barrel of the weapon. Behind him, the two petrified orderlies watch in gagged silence.

"I'm doing all of this for your own good, Harley. The first step to recuperation is admitting that you have a problem."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"That's certainly up for debate."

"You won't shoot me," I say to the barrel of the gun. "You don't want me dead."

A slow, boiling laughter begins rumbling in his chest. He leans in closer so that his face is level with the gun. I try my best not to look away as he seethes,

"And how the hell would _you_ know what _I_ want?"

I look him dead in the eyes. "Because I'm your therapist."

A sly grin curls upon his face. I watch the barrel of the gun shake along with his laughter, steadying as his mirth fizzles out.

"Oh, Harley," he says, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of the doctor's coat. "You got me. I won't shoot you."

He raises the gun, draws back in his chair and points it in Frederick's face.

"Freddy, on the other hand…"

The orderly stares at me with wide, panicked eyes.

 _"Insanity,"_ Joker repeats, with a taunting smile. I swallow hard.

"Institute," I say, though it certainly isn't the first word that comes to mind.

 _"Arkham,"_ Joker says. I answer, _work._ He accuses me of not being honest, and cocks the gun.

"Memories," I correct quickly.

"What kind of memories?"

I struggle to maintain eye contact. "Bad ones."

"About me, I assume. All bad? Remember to be honest. I doubt the janitor will be on good terms with us if we decorate the walls with Fred's cranial matter."

Breathing easy becomes more and more difficult. "Not all bad," I admit. I say it because it is what I know he wants to hear, but saying the words hits me like a stab in the chest. Flickers of memory dance before me; trying and failing not to laugh at his jokes. The thoughts I'd supressed, of how handsome he might be were it not for his colouring, the later concerning realisation that I find him handsome in spite of it. Our fingers, locked across this desk as a sign of a secret promise, an oath between the two of us, an acnowledgement of secrets shared.

It's the answer Joker wanted. He smacks his hand down on the table and shouts,

 _"There_ we go-!"

Before he can continue the door opens, and one of his thugs pokes his head around it. It's the bald-headed goon from earlier, who Nightwing had confined to the elevator with his red-headed friend. I imagine him on his way to rescue me, and pray it isn't folly.

"Boss?" he says, "just to let you know, ah, a few of the boys wanted me to tell you, it was the five of us who found her; Bonco, Vic, Brutal Adams, me and Arnie, but Arnie, he didn't get out of there quick enough so he's in with the police-"

Without a moment's hesitation Joker swings the gun at the henchman and puts two bullets in his head. I see it coming and turn my head away, shaking like a leaf in a storm as the room responds to the slaughter; muffled groans from the two orderlies, both of whom are splattered with blood from the man who stood between the two of them, his corpse sprawled across the floor. Joker, of course, cannot help but express a short, buckled laugh in amongst the carnage; the orderly whose name I never learned begins hyperventilating. The clown quickly barks at him to shut up, as he's still got a few bullets left over and he's itching to use them.

Joker turns to me, sees how shaken I am.

"Don't cry over him, my sweet. Aaron Hellsinger, renowned murderer and all-around idiot. Some high-flying doctor from Metropolis saw to remove his amygdala on his last visit here, said it would help with his therapy. Think of it as a mercy killing."

"You don't have to do this," I plead, my voice breathy.

Irritated, he puts down the gun.

"Do what? What am I doing, aside from having a chat with an old friend?"

"All of this," I say, shuddering. He tilts his head, eyeing me curiously. He looks so different now; sharper, more keen.

"It's been such a long time, hasn't it… and haven't you matured well since we last saw each other, like a fine wine or a mouldy cheese. Have you missed me? ...Probably not. But boy oh boy, I've missed you."

"How did you even find me?!"

"I sent a few of the lads up into the vents after you, after I saw you and the costumed freak clamour up in there. One of them came across you sleeping like a drugged sloth and dragged you out before the cops thought to take a peep inside the vent; there's probably a few of my boys still crawling around in there now. Perhaps I'll gass them out."

He clears his throat and begins rifling through the paperwork on the desk, pulling the glasses from his face and dropping them to the table. I realise then that they are Jeremiah's. Joker notices my eyes trailing the spectacles and remarks,

"His are actually _real."_

Panic rise in my chest. "Tell me you haven't hurt him."

"I haven't hurt him," he says, too quickly. I swallow back fear.

"What have you done with him? Where are the hostages?"

"Well, it depends which ones you mean; after that stunt performed by the Nightingale or whatever he like to call himself, only a few of my boys managed to get out of there conscious and back to me. The hostages and the rest of the crew are now at the mercy of the Gotham City Police Department; well, aside from a few stragglers. The charming attorney who got me locked up here in the first place has had his legs broken and is currently involved in a game on the docks with a few of my boys; they've thrown him in a wheelchair and are taking it in turns rolling him off the pier, then watching him drag himself back onto land, only to be rolled into the water again. I've been watching it through the monitors in the control room, it's great fun. They're taking bets on who can send him flying the furthest, I believe, and how long it takes before he gives up and just allows the sea to swallow him."

"Is that true?"

"Of course it is! When have I ever been one to joke, when it comes to torture most foul? I've got ten dollars and a good pair of shoes riding on him being dead before the sun goes down."

"You're deranged."

Joker taps the papers he has chosen against the table top, straightening them. "You're the one in the strait jacket."

I have no response to that. Joker clears his throat and begins to read from the file he's selected.

 _"'Name',"_ he reads, _"'unknown. Date of Birth: Unknown.'_ Unknown, unknown, unknown… ' _height, weight, hair colour, marital status…'_ Ha! I'm not _that_ crazy!"

I realise then that it's his patient file. His eyes flicker up from the paperwork, a habit which I'm familiar with; he's checking to see if I'm laughing at his joke. He frowns when he sees that I'm not.

"Hmm. Don't you find my side-splitters funny anymore, Harls? Maybe I should give you a skull-splitter instead." He continues reading.

 _"'Mentally unstable.'_ Doesn't take a psychiatrist to figure that one out. _Sociopathic tendencies…_ _narcissistic traits, lack of empathy, sado-masochistic behaviour...'_ yadda yadda yadda… oh, now we're getting to the good part! _Previous convictions!_ Deep breath; _'Multiple counts of Homicide, Terrorism, Embezzlement, Harassment, Grievous Bodily Harm, Identity Theft, Arson, Impersonation of an Officer, Assault of an Officer-'_ what, only one-? _'Robbery, Burglary, Kidnap, Abduction, Damage to State Property, Abuse of Public Services, multiple accounts of Hostage-Taking, Possession of Illegal Weaponry with intent to supply, Possession of class A,B and C Substances with Intent to Supply, Attempted Murder, Manslaughter, Possession of Unlicensed Flora_ and _Fauna...'_ would you like me to go on?"

I am not listening to him. I'm in my own head, surprised at how composed I am regarding the man who was murdered moments before. I see, past Joker's shoulder, the lower half of his body lying sprawled across the floor. Frederick stands in a pool of red. I do not feel scared, or disgusted. Only stunned.

"Harley? Are you _listening_ to me?"

The air smells of blood, which is a peculiar thing.

 _"Harley!"_

I snap back into my painful reality.

"Yes, Mr. J?"

The conversation ends. He puts down the papers and watches me through those dark, twinkling eyes. I try to avoid reading what emotions dance there now. I feel paralysed, unable to look away; those high cheekbones, the smile which would be endearing were it not so menacing. The thick, wavy hair, the pull of the tendons at the base of his throat, dancing down beneath his dark shirt. I don't know how long the two of us stare at each other, locked in some dark spell. I wonder what he sees from his side of the table; skin, hair, teeth. My eyes, blue, ringed red with heartache and frustration. They always look prettier when I cry.

The spell is almost broken when Joker barks at the two orderlies to leave the room. They do this without hesitation, struggling between the two of them to open the door with their bound hands. Their shoes make odd squeaking sounds as they pass through the blood. _Take him with you,_ Joker yells, and between the two of them they are forced to drag the corpse away. Joker's eyes never leave mine for a half-second. The door closes automatically behind them, and the two of us are alone.

The clown stands and shrugs off the doctor's coat, revealing a sharp purple suit beneath, complete with black shirt and a green satin tie. The suit is visibly expensive, sharply tailored, cutting in at the angles of his body, highlighting his slim waist and hugging the tops of his arms, where the muscle lies. He wears a dusting of makeup to dramatize his face; a burgundy red the colour of dried blood on the lips and dark shadows beneath the cheekbones and jawline. The little weight he'd gained has now completley melted away, and there's a firmness to his exposed flesh which I'd never noticed before; he looks exactly as he should have done when we'd first met, exactly how I'd always imagined him, just as he appears in the newspapers… almost like a painting, not quite real, something out of a dream or a nightmare. Cartoonish, clownish, but still intimidating, still undeniably suave.

There's something in that, that he can still be bewitching in spite of his grotesque nature. He seems far more alive in his signature get-up, boundless within his insanity. The way he styles himself makes him difficult to look away from.

He begins to move silently towards me. For the first time we are stood together with him at his full height; he seems impossibly tall, so much so that I feel myself shrinking away from me; he stands in front of me and touches the length of my neck with a cold white hand, his fingers trailing there in a slow motion. The sensation sends a shock through my body, down into the base of my spine, fear prickled with the sweetness of a lover's touch. Coming to terms with the fact that the sensation is by no means unpleasant, I draw away as much as I can; his hand follows, flat against the side of my throat this time.

"I know what you're thinking," he says, and his voice is soft, a murmur. I stare down at his shoes, shaking uncontrollably. He's smiling again, I can almost hear it there in amongst the velvet of his tone. "No, it won't be a repeat of the last time I touched you."

He reaches his other hand around my head and loosens my hair, running his fingers through it and splitting it into two, teasing both tangles of hair either side of my face. His fingers are slow, careful. Almost warm. As though I'm a rag doll, he lifts me by the arms and twirls me around, so that my back is facing him. He coils his arms around my front and holds me against him, pressing his face into my hair. I'm so paralysed with fear that I have to remind myself to breathe.

"You. Are _. Beautiful,"_ he says into my hair. Though my heart thuds in my chest, I do not move. Part of me does not want to. It's oddly intoxicating, being this close to danger, wrapped up in a furnace, and yet not getting burnt. If I close my eyes, I can pretend that he is someone else, a lover, someone more human, someone who loves me, who wants me, who needs me. His breath on my neck is like a cold kiss. The words he whispers are sweet, not septic. He is not hurting me. He does not seem to want to.

At least not yet.

With my hands bound to my sides I cannot defend myself from whatever it is he has planned. Though an odd calm has befallen me, sense and reason still pull at threads within my mind, fighting to find a way to free me from my predicament. Reason soon concludes that there is none. I am here, alone, in a straitjacket. There is no one coming to rescue me. Kicking and screaming will do me no good; I can only wait, and pray.

"I've missed this," he breathes, his face still nuzzled into my hair. His voice is quiet. "Having you here. Drinking you in."

I become acutely aware of the sound of my blood pumping through my temples, of a sudden pang of tinnitus; he rests a hand on my shoulder, and presses the other into the nape of my neck, his chilled touch sparking flashes of our previous encounters in my mind; and that is where the true fear comes in, at the image of those same hands gripping my throat, squeezing, constricting oxygen and blood, squeezing arteries and capillaries. My breathing becomes more rapid as I remember fighting for my life on the floor of this room, the feel of his body weighted down upon mine, the pressure of his hands crushing my throat, stealing away my life.

He breathes in heavily and presses his lips against my neck. Unlike his touch, his kiss is warm; he pulls back and kisses the skin just below my ear, and another slow kiss, then another, in a trail down my neck. I pull away from the sensation, a timid play at defiance.

"Please," I whisper, even in knowing that begging his favour will do me no good. I don't know what else I could say. He laughs at the base of my ear, his breath hot, but draws away, his deft fingers leaving my torso. They trail instead to the base of my spine, where he begins to unbuckle the straight jacket, strap by strap. There is a faint clinking as each metal clasp is released, each tie unravelled. He peels the restraints away from my body, taking discomfort and heat with it; my arms feel all but numb and they hang limply at my sides, tingling with paraesthesia as I step away and slowly turn to face the clown.

His eyes seem a soft, a reedy green in the light of the therapy room. I fight the pressing urge to step away, not wanting to provoke him. His cold hands come to a rest upon each of my cheeks; my weightless, clumsy hands find his own with the intent of pulling them away, but he holds my head still and stares at me intently as though I am a half-complete jigsaw puzzle and he is searching for the right place to press his next piece. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"I don't know what to do with you," the clown says eventually, rubbing his thumbs firmly over my cheeks. "You're the spanner in my skull, Harls; works, sorry, spanner in my works. But you could end up with a spanner in your skull if you don't behave yourself…" he grins, rubs a thumb down the bridge of my nose playfully. Then he frowns.

"That was a joke," he hints. "Quite a funny one, I thought."

Almost as a reflex, but with no lustre, I give him what he wants; I laugh.

There's a twinge of a smile. "Well, that's better than nothing. Come on, I've got a surprise for you."

He takes a firm hold on my hand and pulls me from the room; outside in the corridor stand several of his henchmen, milling around, looking bored. Joker ignores all but one of them who hands him a huge duffel bag.

"Found it, boss. It was down in the storage unit, just like you said; Crane's stuff too, and you wouldn't believe what was in the Croc's crate-!"

"Bored now," Joker says, handing the bag to Fredrick's partner and instructing the two shaken orderlies to follow after us. We have to step over the body of the henchman killed earlier as Joker leads us through several of the therapy unit's rooms. The windows have been taped up, red-and-blue police lights bleeding through the edges; in my desperation, I find the nerve to tell Joker that they'll treat him much less harshly if he gives this up now, and he laughs, telling me that I ought shut my mouth. I'm not fool enough to speak again.

We come to a stop outside the group therapy centre. It is a dark chamber, a circle of bolted seats, with an observation room with a two-way mirror looking in on the patients. The room has always made me feel uneasy during the sessions I've sat in on. Joker opens the door with Frederick's stolen key card and pulls me inside.

Two of the seats in the circle are occupied. In the first, to my shock, sits Jeremiah. He is shaking a little, pulling nervously at his hands. In the opposing chair sits the second figure, a well-dressed woman with her head shielded by a fabric sack. She is breathing heavily, her bird-like chest rising rapidly, and there is blood splattered against the hem of her skirt. She is tied to the chair with rope about her arms and ankles.

"Jeremiah?" I say, uncertainly.

"Harleen? What's going on?"

"All will be revealed," Joker interrupts, pushing me down into one of the seats, where he stands behind me with his hands pressing down on my shoulders. He laughs aloud to himself.

"Now, the _real_ fun begins."


	9. Chapter Eight: Group Therapy

**Chapter Eight:**

 **Group Therapy**

I stare at Jeremiah as the clown kneads his grip into my shoulder blades. Jeremiah shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, Harleen," he says. "I should never have involved you in this."

"No, you shouldn't have." Joker presses down harder. I try not to squirm under his hold, but I can hardly help it. "It was really very irresponsible of you, tying her up in your schemes just to appease me. But hey, am I ever glad you did! I don't know what I'd do with myself had I never been introduced to our little gooseberry here… oh, life would be so boring! Hey, you- no, not you, Fred, _him-_ open up that bag and find me some tape. Harley's getting a bit _wriggly."_

I watch as the orderly places the bag on the floor and begins rifling through it; whilst he searches, Joker monologues, leaving me be and advancing upon the woman bound to the chair. She freezes at his approach.

"It's time for us to have a heart-to-heart," he says, standing before her. Her breathing becomes panicked, audible. "This seems like the perfect place to do it. These group therapy sessions are so intimate."

The orderly pulls item after item from the bag; a deck of playing cards, a hand buzzer, even a rubber chicken. It doesn't take long for me to figure out that these must be the items confiscated from tthe clown upon his incarceration. The comedic gags are followed by less pleasing items, a curved knife, a switchblade, but no tape. He pulls a gun, and halts. Our eyes lock momentarily as he realises the power he wields; then his eyes turn to the clown, whose back is turned as he continues to ramble to his captive.

I shake my head. The orderly shoots anyway.

 _"_ _Don't-!"_

 _Click._

No bang. No bullet. My cry is enough to pull Joker's attention, though, and he turns to see the orderly frozen, the weapon aimed towards his person, with a comedic bang flag just having burst from its end.

The room is silent. The orderly drops the fake gun. Joker grimaces.

"Ugh, what a cheap gag. I like to think I'm past that stage in my career; puns, squirting flowers, smiling fish. It's all very on the nose, don't you think?"

Joker's hand slides into his smart jacket as he's talking, and draws out his own gun. Before the orderly even has a chance to beg for mercy, Joker fires off a bullet straight into the centre of his face.

"Try _that_ for on the nose," he growls, and hides the weapon back in his inner pocket. He brushes himself down, raking a hand through his polished hair, and grins at Frederick.

"Freddy, the tape, if you please."

Conflicted, shaking with fear, Frederick bends beside his fallen co-worker and pulls the duct tape from the bag, tossing it to the clown.

"Take a seat," Joker instructs him, and Fredrick does so without question. The clown passes over Jeremiah and straight to me; I put up just as little resistance as he tapes my hands behind my back.

"Why don't you tell them why I'm not taping you up," he encourages Jeremiah; shakily, the Doctor answers him.

"I… I came of my own accord." I gape at him, baffled.

"That's right, you did. I promised you answers, didn't I, Jerry? And you'll get them soon enough. Patience is a virtue, as they say." He removes the doctor's glasses from his pocket. "Ooh, almost forgot about these. You'll be wanting these back; believe me, Doc, you don't want to miss a moment of this."

"Thank you," Jeremiah quibbles, rubbing the spectacles and putting them back on his face. Joker then sweeps over to the woman bound in the chair.

"Let's find what's beneath bag number one," he says, ripping the bag from her head. "Well, whadda you know, folks! It's Arkham's resident sour puss, _Doctor Jooooaaan Leeland!"_

He rips a piece of tape from her mouth.

"You crazy son of a bitch," she spits, spewing a tirade of abuse in his direction; Joker declares that his ears are far too delicate for that kind of talk, and tapes her mouth shut once more. Streamline in his purple suit, Joker glides into one of the empty chairs and clears his throat.

"So, inmates," he begins, "wait, sorry… _patients._ The four of you are probably wondering why the hell Uncle J has gathered you here. It's simple, really; you've all played pivotal roles in my rehabilitation. It would have been five, had old misery guts over there not taken the easy way out and spoiled the fun." He pulls a face at the orderly's corpse. "Who was that guy, anyway?"

"Nicholas," Frederick answers, his tone firm but with a twinge of fear.

"Hmm. Nicholas. I just called him Thing Two. Now, while I'm of course grateful for the convalescence Arkham has offered me over the last decade, it's time for this cuckoo bird to spread my wings and fly out of those heavily-guarded doors. My misspent youth is over, and I'm afraid to say that I'm beginning to feel my age- it's long past time I fly the nest, get out there and prove to the world that the Joker's still got it. But before I do that, I need to know that I'm leaving this home-from-home in capable hands, and for that to happen, the three of you need to come to terms with a few home truths."

There's silence for a moment. Frederick clears his throat.

"…Three?"

"Oh, yes. _You_ won't be sticking around for the fun part, I'm afraid." Joker springs up and rasps his knuckles against the door to the observation room; it is opened by a thug, who hands Joker another duffel bag before disappearing back into the dark room. Surprised, I wonder how many more men he has sat back there, watching the show through the one-way glass.

Joker pulls a small table into the centre of the room, facing Frederick, and begins pulling bottles of pills from the heavy bag. As he places each bottle down, he reads its name, all manner of sedatives and anti-psychotics. He shakes the last bottle as he places it down; there are a dozen in total.

"I've had the joy of sampling all of these delights since Doctor Leeland's been on the case," Joker informs us, opening up the Prozac and littering its contents out onto the table. "Some more fun than others, but my oh my, you wouldn't _believe_ some of the side effects! I don't want to go into too many details, but I'm pretty sure I've spent more time in the _en suite_ than my cell itself! _Ha!"_

I glance about to Jeremiah and Leeland. Both stare transfixed at the clown, bewildered.

"Being force-fed crazy pills was never quite how I envisioned my nightly routine, Freddy, but you and your boy sure knew how to make things exciting. I've got the scars to prove it. But you know, I was selfish. I never thought of how hard it must have been for you two, having to sit back and watch whilst I gobbled down all of those tasty treats. So I've laid out a banquet for you… feast your eyes."

He pushes the table before Frederick, then pulls the handkerchief from his pocket and lays it delicately across the orderly's lap like a napkin.

"Bon Appetite."

Frederick looks horror-stricken. "You're insane."

"Yes, I've heard that a lot today. Come on, eat up! And just think, now that Nicholas has kicked the proverbial bucket you no longer have to share! Lucky man!"

"Knock it off, freak!" Frederick yells, cracking up, "I'm not touching any of that shit!"

Joker slams his hands down on the table and growls. A shudder goes through the room.

"Oh yes you are," Joker growls, his voice low, "you're going to eat every last pill, and then you are going to die in beautiful, burning agony for your adoring crowd. My boys back there have been looking forward to this, they've even brought popcorn. Open wide."

"Go screw yourself-!"

 _"_ _Take. The. Pills."_

"Go to hell!"

Joker loses the remains patience. He cracks open several of the bottles, then grabs Frederick by the throat with a gloved hand. Taped to the chair, there's nothing Frederick can do to save himself.

"Open wide!"

Frederick groans through gritted teeth, shaking his head to escape the clown's grip; Jeremiah pleads with him, Leeland calls him a monster; I sit in stunned silence. Joker stamps hard on Fredericks foot so that he cries out- the moment he does, Joker pours the entire bottle of pills down his throat, then the next, then the next, until the pills scatter left and right as Frederick struggles in the Joker's vertical hold. The rattling of the pills and the skidding of the chair as the two men struggle is accompanied with choking sounds from the orderly, and Joker's trademark laughter.

"Not great, is it?" Joker sneers, his grip tightening as Frederick struggles for air. The clown knees him in the gut and braces himself against him as the man begins to choke and gag; vomit spills out over Joker's clenched hand, the orderlies eyes bulging horrifyingly. The sounds are the worst part, and when the Joker begins to laugh, I can't help but cry aloud, tears spilling down my cheeks. It's over quickly, Frederick's guttural gasps and spluttering's coming to a final, sickening end.

Joker exhales loudly, peeling himself away from Frederick. He peels off his vomit-covered gloves, flinging them to the floor.

"Well, that was more unpleasant than I'd expected," he says, opening the door where his henchmen sit and demanding someone find him a new jacket. One of his men scurries out of the room, quick to fulfil the task. Joker removes his soiled overcoat and throws it into the corner of the room. He turns to the rest of us, his fingers twirling in a dramatic gesture.

 _"Taste of his own medicine._ That was a good one, no?"

He seems surprised that no one sees the funny side.

"Always the critics," he frowns.

Fear pulsates through the room like a tangible force; I breathe it in and out. The clown takes a seat beside me as he waits for his new jacket, resting his legs upon my lap and leaning back against his chair. Two more of his henchmen enter the room, the first to drag out Frederick's corpse, still taped to the chair, and the second with a mop and bucket to, as Joker puts it, _'clean up the workspace'._ I can't help but cry, exhausted as I am. I try my hardest to be quiet as the tears track my face, but it's impossible.

"There there," the clown says, and reaches across me to tuck a thread of hair behind one ear. When I flinch away, he chuckles.

"So that's what this is all about," Leeland calls to him, buckling in her seat, having managed to gnash her way free of the tacky tape across her mouth. "This is you getting your own back on us. The people who've tried to help you since you've been locked away here-"

"Didn't I shut you up already?!" Joker snaps. "Don't worry, you'll have it much worse than old Freddy. Believe me, I can be _very_ creative when I want to be."

"Please don't kill us," I plead, my chest tight with weeping.

"Harley, sweetie, that's enough whimpering. Now listen up, you three; we are gathered here today because one of you has not been very honest with the rest of the group. Therapy is all about trust, is it not? So, in order that we might move ahead with the programme, one of you has a confession to make. You know who you are. I'll be generous, and give you... shall we say twenty minutes?"

We all look to the clock on the wall. Just then, the henchman returns with Joker's new jacket, a smart black number with a deep red piping, most likely stolen from one of the hostages. He takes it gratefully.

"I think that's time enough. Don't want to push my luck when the cops are closing in on us. If I don't hear my confession by then, someone else is going to be joining the orderlies in Arkham's heavenly counterpart." He stands, grimacing as he slides into his new jacket. "That sounded terrible. What I'm trying to say is that one of you will die."

Jeremiah tries to reason with him, which Joker does not take kindly to. The clown takes the seat opposing me, glancing up at the clock and announcing that our time starts now; no talking unless it's to confess, or he'll be forced to use his creative talents again. I look to Jeremiah and Joan, and wonder which one of us he's waiting for a confession from. Sweat and condensation causes the tape on my wrists to give a little. I shift, trying to loosen it futher to no avail. I realise then that Joker is staring at me intently. He smiles and I look away, my eyes meeting his shoes. They are what I focus on as the silence builds.

This scenario reminds me, oddly, of a so-called _game_ we play in college. One of our lecturers believes whole-heartedly that, as a class, we need to become one and feel comfortable with each other in order to learn to the best of our ability as psychology students. He has us sit in a circle and each of us must say something about how we are feeling; the only rule being that the lecture does not begin until everyone has spoken. Sometimes we'll sit there for hours, a whole lecture wasted with barely a word said; the twenty of us sit in silence, staring at our feet. Sometimes, I suppose, there's just nothing more to say.

That is not the case now. Joker wants something from one of us. As he continues to stare at me, I start to become convinced that I'm the one he wants. _What have I done?_

As much as I try, I cannot think of anything conclusive that he could want to hear from me, though a thousand thoughts race through my mind. Perhaps it is validation he seeks, for the impact he has had upon me? Or something more twisted; does he want me to admit the blame for him almost killing me, to admit that I put myself in that danger? Or is it an admission of something else; of missing him? A quiet thought crosses my mind; _of love?_ Oh, I am so tired.

No one seems prepared to admit to anything. We do not hear a word from the clown or one another. I try to think of the transgressions of Jeremiah, and of Leeland; what could he want to hear from them so badly? What could they have done, these two respected people? What are they hiding? These questions eat away at me until the time bleeds from the clock; fifteen minutes. Ten. When the clock reaches five, joker begins to imitate the clock; _tick-tock, tick-tock. Tick-tock, tick-tock._ He takes the gun from his pocket and mimes shooting me. His eyes are still on my face.

 _It is me. He wants me to say something. Think, Harleen. Tick-tock, tick-tock…_

Panic builds. I feel my heart race, my head pounding. Joker's finger plays with the trigger. One of us has to speak, and if it will be neither of these two, then it has to be me.

"Four minutes and counting. Tick-tock, tick-tock-"

"Joker," I say, my voice barely audible. He stops, his expression one of surprise. I flinch in my seat as he approaches me, but keep my eyes firmly locked on his. He crouches down in front of me so that our faces are level, one hand braced against my thigh, the other toying with the gun. I force myself not to pull away.

"Thank heavens for that. I was sure for a minute there that I was going to have to use this old thing again. Have something to share with the group, Harley? Go ahead, this is a safe space."

I swallow hard, forcing the words to leave my mouth.

"I… I've missed you."

I tell myself that I am telling him what he wants to hear. I'm not sure where the reality lies.

"Aww, Harley," he says with a sudden smile, a genuine one- I wonder if I've ever seen him _really_ smile before. "That's adorable. I've missed you too. That's not what I was looking for, though."

I stare up at him, confused. _What more does he want from me?_

"I… I don't understand…"

"Don't worry your pretty little head about 's not you who needs to confess." He raises his voice, still facing me, but directing his words to those behind. "I'll give you five more minutes. Harley's cute little admission has got me feeling generous."

I'm thoroughly embarrassed but relieved that I'm not the one on the receiving end of his disdain. Jeremiah sits with his head bowed, breathing noisily. He looks as though he is working himself up to speak; when he finally does, his tone is dry.

"I'm slowly killing Martin Hawkins."

I stare at the man in stunned silence. Beside me, Joker comes to life, unfolding himself from his position.

"Say it again, Jerry?"

He looks up to meet the man's eyes, his breathing ragged. "I've put one of the student nurses on his medication run. She's practically incompetent, doesn't even realise I've got him down for almost triple the dosage of morphine he should be taking for his pancreatitis. It's killing him slowly, but it'll do the job soon enough." A pause. "I'm not sorry. I'd do it again, after all he's done. It's the least he deserves."

Joker laughs, outrageously loudly, for a long time. He wipes a mirthful tear from his eye and stands to smack Jeremiah on the shoulder warmly.

"Jerry, you old dog! Now that's a good one! I never thought you had it in you; another murderer in our midst!" Joker chuckles again, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his black jacket. "Good man. Well, Joan, these two are upstaging your act! It's getting like a daytime talk show in here, and here's me without my camera crew. You might want to get a move on with the confession. Never know when one of these two wildcards will come out with something else outlandish."

I open my mouth to speak, but think better of it. So the confession was not mine to make, nor Jeremiah's. I can feel that he is embarrassed, too, and is beating himself up for his confession. What a pair of fools we must look.

Joan looks visibly agitated. Her skin glistens with sweat, and ever so slowly, she begins to shake. Joker sits patiently, waiting for her to speak.

I cannot help but ask her, affronted,

"What have you done?"

She looks up at me as though she has never seen me before. In an instant, she looks like a different woman; the blood has drained from her face, her eyes are wide with panic.

"We shouldn't rush the patient, Harley," the clown says. "These things take time… something which Doctor Leeland is quickly running out of."

Leeland's breathing gets shorter and more audible; her face flushes once more, and she begins to hyperventilate.

"She's having a panic attack," Jeremiah diagnoses, as Leeland's condition worsens.

"Not surprising, given what she's done," Joker tells me, "it's almost enough to make even my cold dead heart tremble. Isn't that right, Doc?!"

Leeland begins to cry, thick, audible sobs. Joker rests a hand upon Jeremiah's shoulder. "Well, if you won't tell them I suppose I'll have to. You see, Jerry, what she's not telling you is that it's her fault your wife and sweet little Harriet are pushing up daisies."

Leeland is sobbing, her breathing increasingly laboured.

"You see, Jerry, Doctor Leeland felt that she was really making progress before you decided to push her out of her hard-earned position as the shrink for, not to toot my own horn but, you know, _toot toot,_ the most high-profile whack-job this side of Metropolis. She had big plans for me, and when you came along and interfered, well, she just couldn't have that now, could she?"

"Please," Leeland gasps, "please…"

"When she took over your patients so that you could have more time to spend with yours truly, she began planting ideas in Mad Dog's head. Dangerous ideas. Ideas of things he could do to your wife." He pauses, leaning in close to Jeremiah's ear. "To your _daughter."_

"Don't listen to him, Jeremiah!" I call to him, "he's lying-!"

Joker spins around rapidly and, without warning, slaps me hard across the face. I cry aloud, reeling from the blow, my cheek stinging with sharp, prickling pain; Joker's demur changes in an instant, as though he's surprised at what he's done, or at least he's pretending to be. He bends to his knee before me, abandoning his previous pursuit. A handkerchief appears from the front of his blazer and he presses it to my bleeding lip, muttering my name, as though he's dealing with a wounded animal.

"Ooh, Harley, Harley, Harley…" He brings his hands either side of my face, brushing his palms across my cheeks with a pained expression, as though trying to rectify the damage. His eyes are alive, concerned. "Oh, kitten… I didn't mean to do that. Sometimes you just…" He clenches both fists dramatically to express his frustration, releasing them in my direction. _"You know?"_

I stare at him, stunned. He grins as though forgiven, kisses me on my forehead and jumps back to a shaken Jeremiah, folding the blood-dabbled cloth and placing it in the pocket above his heart.

"Sorry about that. Anyway, back to the good stuff; Joan set about planting little seeds of sadism in Hawkins' big empty noggin. It was easy enough, especially for a professional like her. Mad Dog has always been a blank canvas just waiting for some Jackson Pollok wannabe to come and splatter some ideas onto him. She pushed for his release, forged a couple of signatures and ticked the right boxes, and you…" Joker begins to laugh. "No doubt you were too caught up with all the progress you were making with your star pupil and approved Hawkins' release papers without so much as a second thought. I suppose you could say you signed your family's death warrants."

"Oh, _God!"_ Jeremiah moans, buckling in his seat.

"I know, I know, it's a lot to take in. Hard to believe, isn't it? A respectable woman like Doctor Leeland."

"Mr. J, please…"

He turns sharply to me, pointing a warning finger in my direction. In my fragile state, the gesture is enough to melt me. I back down instantly, like a dog shying away from its master's boot.

The clown steps before Leeland. "Let's see what she has to say for herself."

There is a high wailing as she pleads with him, nothing like the strong woman I have always known her to be. I suppose I have never really known her at all.

"Go on, Joan. Tell him the truth. He deserves that, doesn't he?"

In a snivelling voice she addresses Jeremiah, her voice thick and quivering.

"I never wanted him to kill them," she splutters through her tears.

I hear Jeremiah's heart break beside me. He begins howling aloud, unfathomable sounds that sound more animal than human.

"You bitch!" he manages eventually, "you _bitch!"_

Jeremiah continues to curse her as she tries to explain herself; he was only supposed to hurt his wife, do something to shake up the family so that Jeremiah would be out of the picture for a while and she could regain her position. _It was never supposed to end the way it did,_ she says. I cannot believe what I am hearing, that anyone could be so full of spite, so malicious.

"It's true?!" I yell across at her, "how could you do that?! What's _wrong_ with you?!"

"I'm sorry!" Leeland cries to Jeremiah through her sobs, "I'm so sorry, I just wanted you out of the way for a while Jerry, out of Arkham, I was so _angry_ with you! Everything I'd worked for and you just… he was never supposed to kill them!"

"What did you think he would do?!" Jeremiah roars, his voice demonic, scary. Even Joker looks unnerved, taking a step back towards me as he feeds off the action.

"I didn't know, I never thought-!"

Jeremiah screams over her. "You knew what he was, you were his Doctor for christ sake! You read all the reports, heard the stories! He's a maniac, a murderer! _"_

The room bleeds out into silence. Not even the Joker has the heart to disturb it.

"She was six," Jeremiah weeps, his head hung low. All the energy has left him. I find myself crying for him, the tears silent this time; tears for his family, tears for us all. _"Six."_

Joker takes a seat beside me, his arm around my shoulder. I sit completely still, petrified by the tension and our previous physical encounter. After a long while, he speaks quietly to me.

"I bet you're wondering what the hell any of this has got to do with you."

I'm wondering a lot of things, but that isn't one of them. I'm wondering how any of this can be true, how anyone could be so evil. And yet, it is. _She_ has.

"Well, Doctor Leeland's atrocities don't stop with what she's done to Jeremiah and his dear family, oh no. She's hurt you, too."

I look up at the woman. She looks bewildered, unable to grasp all that is happening. I stare back at her, struggling to understand. The room smells of sweat and vomit.

"See, Jeremiah wasn't the only one she wanted out of the picture. The two of you had been so troublesome. She was well on her way to becoming one of the most respected practitioners in the country. She'd worked hard, fought to get here. Your somewhat humble beginnings in Midway City were never going to stop a woman like you, were they, Joan? No matter how many people needed trampling on to get to the top, or how much of Daddy's money needed spending. Everyone wanted to hear of her breakthroughs, her progress, and then the two of you came along and ripped all that away from her. You, of all people, a college trainee without a penny to her name and no previous experience. You were getting in the way, and Joan here saw the perfect way to get you _out_ of it, once and for all."

It dawns on me then. "No," I say.

"O-ho-ho, yes," he grins. "Once Jeremiah was out of the way, there was only one problem left to take care of." He pinches my cheek lightly. "And what a pretty little problem you are. So, on the night that Jeremiah announced he would be gone for the foreseeable future, Doctor Leeland came and paid me a visit."

"That's not true!" Joan pleads, exhausted.

"Oh, come on, the truth's already out, you may as well just admit to the rest," Joker yells over his shoulder. He grins at me again. "She promised me she'd push for an early release, up my exercise allowance and have me moved into a nice new cell with a television. No more drug cocktails, either, and once I was out, there'd be radio interviews, TV spotlights, the works. All if I'd do her the favour of squashing the little blonde menace who was scurrying about under her feet. Now for a man like me, that's not an offer to be easily refused- I've always had a face fit for television! So you have to understand, when I had you pinned to that floor _choking the life out of you,_ it really wasn't anything personal."

I stare at Joan. I remember how it felt, the clown's cold hands wrapped about my throat as he squeezed, slowly killing me. I imagine her face above me rather than his, see her willing me away, crushing me out of existence.

Joan is shaking her head at me, a denial, or a plea. Anger against her boils up within my chest as she tries to deny the truth.

"Harleen, he's lying! You have to believe me! I would _never-!"_

I surprise us all by laughing. It bursts forth from my chest, unexpected, almost manic. There's a dark joy in Joker's face.

"Oh, that's rich!" I scream at the woman, leaning forward in my chair, " _'you would never!'_ You've just admitted to having Jeremiah's family murdered!"

She never liked me, even before I became involved with Joker's care. Always making short, snide comments, singling me out in the cafeteria, questioning my level of involvement with the patients. She'd never have approved for me to conduct that session alone with Joker if she didn't have an ulterior motive; I should have seen it back then! A woman like that, to do the things she's done; how many other people has she crushed in her quest for success?

"Please," she groans. "Harleen, you have to believe me."

I glare at her. There is venom in my mouth. For the first time in a long while, I feel in control.

"I don't. You wanted me dead for doing my job, you evil bitch. For trying to help him."

"He's lying to you, why can't you _see it-?!"_

"Bitch," Jeremiah is muttering, his composure leaking away with every breath. "Bitch. Bitch. _Bitch."_

"He's _lying-!"_

Joker steps between us and kneels down in front of me. He has my full attention in an instant, one cold hand against my cheek.

"I _saw_ you," he says fervently, passionately, "and that's why I stopped when I did. I couldn't do that to you, I didn't _want_ to hurt you. Harley, Harley. I've never done anything like that before, not even once, but I did for you." I listen, transfixed by those glowing eyes. "I could see then that there was more to you, that there was _something_ there. Something familiar, dazzling, like looking into a mirror. You _must_ have felt it!"

I try to remember, and suddenly I'm there; at that moment of calm right before I was about to fade, focusing on his eyes, the same ones I stare into now. The way his face changed, softened, contorted into confusion, bled back into a smile. Yes, there was something there. A moment of connection, a mutual understanding, enough for him to stop killing me, to save my life.

I think back to other moments we've shared, new memories mingling with the old; our hands brushing as we passed papers across the table, lingering a moment longer than necessary. The way he glances at me when he makes a joke and always has, to see if I'm laughing along. Those smiles, those stares, which make him impossible to look away from. Our fingers interlocked across a table. The things he told me in the brief moments we were alone; seeing a man behind the laughter.

Joan begins protesting her innocence once again. She will admit to the horrors she wrought upon Jeremiah and his family, but no to setting Joker against me. The man had never so much as threatened me before that session when he almost killed me. She says I must be as crazy as he is if I'm choosing to believe him over her.

"Why would I believe you?" I bark at her over Jeremiah's continued sobs, "You're a liar, a manipulator. You had a family murdered for the sake of your job-!"

"I told you all, he was never supposed to kill them-!"

"You're a Doctor, for Christ's sake!" Jeremiah screams, "you really thought you could control a man like Hawkins? Like the Joker?"

I lean forward in my chair, spit the words at her.

"You really thought you were _that good?!"_

Joker exhales deeply and curls a hand around the back of my throat. I can feel how pleased he is; I barely flinch at the gesture, as perplexed as I am with Joan. I have never truly felt hatred towards anyone before. She is the first, and it's like having fire in your lungs, like lighting a match; it burns away everything else you've ever seen in them.

"Now for the icing on the cake," Joker says, pulling away from me. "Tell them why you did it, Joan. What it all boils down to, in the end."

"Please," she whispers, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. It sounds as though she might be praying.

"Oh, you really are making me do all the work," Joker groans, but I know that he's loving this whole fiasco. He moves over to the duffle bag and rummages through its contents. When he returns, he is holding a book.

"No," Joan wails, "please, please… oh God."

"He's not well known for helping people us," Joker grins, and slams the book down into her lap. It falls to the floor and lands face-down and open, so that the cover is upright. I twist in my chair to get a better look at it.

Surprisingly, the face on the cover is that of the Joker. The image is of him in his prime; bright green hair, clownish attire, a candid snapshot of his laughing profile. The cover text reads;

 _'_ DOCTOR JOAN K. LEELAND: _'JOKER: THE MAN BEHIND THE SMILE'_

 _An in-depth look into the life and psyche of the self-styled Clown Prince of Crime'_

I stare at the book, bewildered. I realise then that the clown is cutting away at my restraints; I pull my hands together in my lap, wringing them.

"The title could use some work, but the photograph is a great choice," Joker comments nonchalantly as Jeremiah and I try to take it all in, "really captures my porcelain complexion and perfect teeth. Like I said, _face fit for television._ What do you think, Harls?"

He hands me the weighty book. I turn it over in my hands, run my fingers down its spine.

"She did this?" I ask in the throes of disbelief.

"It's got her name on the cover and her picture on the back, so I hardly think it's one of Stephen King's! Go on, take a look inside."

I flick through the pages; it's a tell-all autobiography and breakdown of the inner workings of his mind, detailing all of his exploits through the years; his encounters with the Batman, interviews with his victims, details upon his spells in Arkham. But that's not all; the first chapter, the contents page tells me, is a breakdown of the Joker's assumed childhood. My stomach turns over as I glance through the pages; they detail the story of a little boy who faced abuse at the hands of his father. I read the text beneath a subheading: _'A Visit to the Circus.'_

It is the story Joker told me, the tale which almost brought him to tears when we were given our first session alone. The story which caused me to weep for my patient alone that night, in which he showed me that he was truly human beneath the extravagant persona. The story I kept a secret between the two of us, not even telling Jeremiah, the story which was confined to my personal notes. Joker is reading over my shoulder.

"Funny how that one should be in here, seeing as you're the only person I ever told that story to."

I look up at him in sudden horror, shaking my head in innocence. "I never…"

"Oh, I know you'd never do such a thing, Harley. That's what got me thinking…"

Realisation hits like a mallet to the chest.

"You stole my notes," I say to Leeland.

At this point, Leeland isn't even trying to defend herself. She just looks defeated.

"Most of that book is comprised of material taken from the notes and session tapes compiled by the two of you, passed off as things learnt during her own sessions with me. Odd, seeing as the only thing close to therapy she's attempted to give me over the past year has been sending half the security team down into the basement to beat the crap out of me every now and then. The rest of the book is just composed of raw, unfiltered _bullshit."_

I flick through the rest of the book, picking up hints of my research within the pages, stopping on a page that accounts staff injuries; a list of orderlies' injuries, the loss of Frederick's ear included. My stomach somersaults when I see that I've been given my own subheading. I have to stop reading halfway through, unable to stomach the tone of the words, which implies that the incident was very much my own fault. Knowing now that the attack was of Leeland's design, rage bubbles forth from within me.

"You evil cow," I sneer. Then I turn to the clown. "How did you find out all of this?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised the things some of these orderlies hear during therapy sessions and when they're sedating patients; ears like satellite dishes, pick everything up. Even Freddy who only had the one, God rest his soul, would slip me the odd tidbit of information for the right price. Mad Dog has been doing a lot of talking in the last few weeks; maybe it's those extra meds Doctor A's been prescribing that have made his tongue so loose. I happened across the book this morning as I was monitoring the chaos from Leeland's office. It made quite the interesting read. This is just a prototype edition, so there's plenty of room for improvement, of course. She's got an invoice in her desk drawer for an order of fifteen-hundred of the things ready to go to print at the end of the year."

I glare daggers at Joan. Jeremiah is torn between tears and anger, shaking in his seat.

"So there you have it, Jerry. Harley. Child murder, assassination, lies and plagiarism. One woman's quest to exploit her vulnerable patient with a tell-all best seller. Now, it would be poetic justice to _throw the book at her,_ so to speak, but I'm not sure if that would be possible to beat a person to death with a book of that size; still, you're welcome to try. If not, we're spoiled for choice- I brought some toys!"

He whistles and two henchman scurry forward from the observation unit, armed with a variety of weapons; a handgun, a machete, a crowbar, something else I couldn't put a name to but which looks horribly dangerous. I wonder what else the goons have hiding back there.

"You two have fun with it," the clown says, taking the seat between Jeremiah and I. "I'm just here to watch the show."

I gape at him when I realise what he's expecting us to do. "We're not going to kill her."

Jeremiah's chair scrapes across the floor. "Speak for yourself."

"Jeremiah?" I say in disbelief. Joker is smiling. "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, I'm serious," he says, looking over the weapons. He removes his jacket, lets it fall to the floor.

"Jerry, I… I know how you're feeling. But this isn't the way."

"Don't spoil the fun," Joker mutters quietly.

"She needs to go to prison for what she's done! She has to pay!"

"She's about to," he says, picking up the gun. He ignores Joan's increasingly fervent pleas for mercy. "You work at Blackgate. You know as well as I do that prison is too soft on these animals."

"Almost as cushy as being locked up in this loony bin," Joker adds, moving his chair close to mine so that our shoulders are touching. "She'll have her own room, movie nights on Saturdays, visitors every week, and in five years they'll let her out on good behaviour."

"You call that paying penance, Harleen?"

I don't know what to say.

"Oh come on, Jezza, have some fun with it!" Joker calls as Jeremiah handles the gun, "go for the machete, though the crowbar's fun, too. That one in particular has a real nice swing to it, leaves your victim positively _squirming._ You're trying to make her pay, not put her out of her misery!"

Horrifyingly, Jeremiah listens to his reasoning. He places the gun back on the floor and picks up the crowbar, testing its weight against his palm.

"They'll lock you up," I plead with him weakly. "It'll be the end of your life, too."

He laughs aloud. "What life? My family is gone, because of her."

"I know, I know, but you have to-"

"She wanted you dead, Harleen! Don't defend her!"

"I'm not... just... it's not right."

He stares at the crowbar, resigning himself to his decision. "What she did wasn't right."

I'm too tired to fight any longer.

Jeremiah takes a step towards the pleading woman, then another, before turning back to me.

"It's her fault they're dead," he says over Joan's screaming, the crowbar quivering in his hands. "Corrinne... my Harriet. She killed my little girl."

He waits a moment; I realise he wants my approval, a nod or some sort of confirmation that it's the right thing to do. I cannot give it, but I cannot stop him, either. I think of the terrible things she has done to the both of us, and realise then that perhaps I should not want to. Defeated, deflated, I turn my face into Joker's shoulder and close my eyes. He breathes into my hair and strokes a finger down my face.


	10. Chapter Nine: Trust

**Chapter Nine:**

 **Trust**

It's a terrible thing, to hear someone die. Jeremiah listens to Leeland's apologies before he makes the kill. He hears all of her pleas and excuses over again, and then makes her pay all the same. He makes her say their names.

 _Corrine and Hattie,_ she weeps, _Corrine and Hattie, oh God, oh don't, I never knew he'd kill them, please, Jeremiah, we were_ friends, _please…_

Jeremiah groans with the effort of the manoeuvre when he makes the first blow; there is a great bellowing sound as the crowbar makes contact with bone, the latter cracking in submission. At first Joan screams, a sound like none I've ever heard before. With the second hit the screams become wet wails, a third turns them into shrieks, and by the fourth strikes there's nothing but moans. Jeremiah is roaring over her, his words barely intelligible but full of a wild, manic hatred. The moans turn quickly into gurgles, which swiftly die away into nothing, yet the smacks of the crowbar continue. I cling to Joker without a second thought, my face pressed into his shirt, a fist balled into the fabric of his piped blazer. He holds a hand across my back, as though comforting a child. That is what I feel like; a little girl. Weak and helpless.

When I hear the crowbar clatter to the ground and the only sound left is Jeremiah panting, I peel myself away from the clown's hold. The fabric of his shirt is damp, hot with silent tears. My eyes are sore, swollen, so that it hurts when I try to blink. I have to fight not to vomit when I'm brave enough to look; Jeremiah is kneeling before the body. There is blood and other matter at his feet, parts of Joan that are not a part of her any longer. He too, like a child, begins to cry, great wet sobs that shake the room.

"I wondered how long it would take until this place turned into a kindergarten," Joker mutters, heaving Jeremiah up to his feet. "There you go, old chap. You're alright. Good job, for a first attempt."

Jeremiah's clothes are splattered with red, his entire body quaking. He doesn't seem to see either of us, even as Joker takes his arm and leads him to one of the chairs. The clown keeps his eyes on me the whole time. I pretend not to notice.

A horrible, wheezing noise comes from the lump of pulp which used to be Doctor Joan Leeland. I cannot bring myself to look, but I know that sound from television; it is the sound of someone struggling to breathe through a punctured lung. Every breath she takes will be drawing air in through the open would, adding to her suffering.

"She's alive," I breathe. The sound quietly persists.

"Not for long," Joker says, watching the body. He is not squeamish, understandably. He taps a finger against the side of his head. "She's already gone, where it matters. Half her brain is mashed into the carpet, she won't feel a thing. Less of a _she_ now, really. More of an _it."_

"Just kill her," I plead, closing my eyes again. "End it."

He looks at me with curious concern. Then he moves into the centre of the room and picks up the gun from the pile of weaponry. He offers it to me.

"No," I say. He shakes his head a little, and advances on me; I stand, shaking my head wildly as he tries to put the weapon in my hands.

"Shhh, shhh," he says, struggling with me until I hold the gun in my hands properly, his fingers wrapped over my own so that I can not relieve myself of the weapon.

"No, please, just do it, _you_ just do it. I can't, Mr. J, I _can't-"_

"You can," he says, and pulls me forward gently. When I resist, pleading with him, he becomes agitated and pulls me harder. "You need to."

"Don't make me do this," I say, my words broken, my hands shaking. He releases me as I step before the body.

"Fine," he says sharply. "But I'm not doing it. How about you, Jerry?"

Jeremiah sits in silence, shivering.

"I'll take that as a no. You're on your own, Doctor Quinzel."

He takes a seat, leaving me stranded with the dying woman. I can barely bring myself to look; Joan is turned towards me, her eyes unseeing. Joker is right, half of her skull is caved in. Her eyes do not sit right in their sockets. There is no way she can be sentient at this point, aware even of the pain. Only her chest rises and that horrible sound like a gate creaking persists.

She's already dead; what made her Joan Leeland, the good and bad, _so much bad,_ is all gone. Even so, I can't let her carry on like this. It's inhuman. The sound of her labored, unnatural breathing alone is enough to drive a person insane.

I take a deep breath to compose myself as I kneel down and place the weapon against her temple, assuring that I won't miss the shot. I look away and pull the trigger.

I do not look at what I've done. I simply stand with the warm blood soaking into my tights, running down my legs, and hand the gun back to the clown. He takes it from me in silence, stands to meet me, and offers out a hand.

I do not take it. I cross my arms over my shoulders and he pulls me into his chest. He brings his arms around me, holding me, and presses his face into my hair. I cry into him. I never want to be let go.

I don't know how long the two of us stand there. Eventually, Jeremiah's murmured sobs become louder than my own, too loud to ignore, and the clown peels me away from his person.

"Jerry," he says, clearing his throat, "you're free to go."

Jeremiah looks up at him; his glasses are gone, his face swollen and drenched in tears. "W… what?"

"Your work here is done, and a fine job you did of it too, old boy. Well done. Now you can go."

Stunned, Jeremiah gets to his feet. He can barely support his own weight.

"W-where should I go?"

"Out the front door and to freedom, of course. My boys will let you through. On your way out, could you let the lovely folks from the Gotham City Police Department in? I've had far too much excitement for one day."

Dazed, Jeremiah stumbles out of the therapy room door. Once he is gone, I stand in bewilderment.

"So that's it? You're… done? You're just going to let them come in here and take you down?"

He watches me coolly. "That depends on how you answer this question."

His hand is on my shoulder again.

"Do you trust me, Harleen?"

It feels so strange to say, but the words come without me even having to think about them. "…Yes, I do."

He reaches a hand into his pocket and draws out a thin, familiar-looking box.

"Prove it."

I take the slender box from his hand and remove its lid. Inside is a needle, identical to the one which was left for me in the sensory room at the beginning of this whole misadventure. The pale green liquid inside waits patiently to be put to use. I think back to our earlier conversation; how Joker said it wouldn't kill me, and little else. Should I believe him?

My hands shake as I hold the box, staring down at the gift inside. "I… I don't know what it is."

"That's the beauty of trust," he tells me. I hear the sounds of the police officers storming the building, battling with Joker's goons outside. There are nervous mumbles from his men in the back room. "I won't tell you what's in that needle... but this is crunch time, Harley. Believe me, everything rides on what you decide to do in this moment. It's your decision to make, but make it quick; I'd say you've got thirty seconds before the boys in blue storm in here."

I stare at the needle.

"Twenty seconds," he says.

Gingerly I remove it from the box, let the lid fall to the floor.

"I can't do this."

"Then you'll face the consequences. Fifteen."

A million thoughts race through my head, myriad possibilities of what could happen.

"I'm frightened, Mr. J."

"Aren't you always? Ten."

I look to him pleadingly. His eyes betray nothing. Terror-stricken, I make my choice in an instant, my hands shaking as tense my tendons, struggling to find a vein. Joker's hand helps guide the needle as the thunder of the SWAT boots hammer down the hallway.

In the needle goes, with a sharp stab. I give a pained exhale as it punches through every layer of skin. I stare at Joker, desperate for some sort of confirmation that this choice is the right one. He nods, smiling the smile, his eyes alive with hunger, as I push the fluid into my bloodstream.

"Good girl," Joker says animatedly, yanking the needle swiftly out the moment I've injected the syrum and throwing it to the floor. I close my eyes for a second, feeling how the sudden rush of liquid pushes its way through my veins, heading towards my heart. When I open them it is to Joker's smiling face, and in an instant he grabs me hard by the waist and lifts me into the air, spinning me for a moment and suddenly he's kissing me, and my veins are electric as my feet touch the ground again, my head swimming even as the clown pulls away, the green liquid coursing through my body; and suddenly there's a hammering at the door as the police burst in, surrounding us in seconds, barking commands.

"On your knees, clown! Both of you, down on the ground!"

"What ever you say, captain!" Joker grins, grabbing my hand and pulling me down to the ground with him, mock-bowing. "We are ever at your mercy."

The captain of the SWAT team seems stunned by Joker's instant cooperation, unsure of how to act.

"...Good. Now you stay there until I tell you to move, understand? And you let go of the lady's hand."

He does so, uncoiling his fingers from my own. I look to him, terrified and confused, and he winks.

" _Let 'em have it, boys!"_

And suddenly the room explodes with green gas, pumped in from the room behind the two-way mirror, so thick you can barely see in front of you, and Joker is pushing me flat to the floor as the panicking SWATs begin to fire blindly; he's on top of me, crushing me and laughing as the guards begin joining in, their own laughter mingled with coughs and yells as they begin falling to their knees, clawing at their throats, eyes bulging; I feel the gas enter my lungs and my whole body begins to burn bright with fear as I stop myself from breathing, fighting against the clown, as I come to the realisation that he's killing me, he's letting me die, he's letting me die and he's _laughing…_

Everything is green. The police officers are dying all around us, choking on the Joker's toxin as they claw their way towards the entrance, scrambling over the bodies of their colleagues, but there is no escape; out in the hallway, even the Joker's subdued goons are laughing themselves into a frenzy, eyes bulging as the malicious gas drinks up their lives.

And yet I am not dead, or laughing. The toxin is in my lungs, I can feel it tickling there, but it is not killing me. I stop fighting to free myself of the Joker, dare to breathe, and once the last of the bullets die out he springs from atop me and pulls me up alongside him, his eyes gleeful as he watches the last of the soldiers crumble.

"It was the antidote!" I yell at him through the madness. He laughs even louder.

"Well of course it was! Did you really think I'd kill off my favourite quack?!"

Sick as it is, I find myself laughing with relief, even as the last of the officers fizzle out around me.

The moment does not last long as seconds later the glass window of the observation room is shattered with stupendous force, and two of the Joker's masked henchmen come flying through, crashing to the floor; I cover my face with my hands to protect myself from the glass as it showers towards the Joker and I, shrieking in panic; when I look up I see a lithe figure emerging in the wake of the two unconscious goons. It takes me half a second to realise that it's Nightwing.

In his hands he holds his batons. Joker sneers like a rabid dog.

"About time we met face-to-face," the vigilante says, his voice distorted by a futuristic-looking metal mask which protects him from the airborne toxin. He presses a button on each of the batons, and the dual weapons come alive with a buzzing electricity. "Come get some, asshole."


	11. Chapter Ten: The Nightmare of Gotham

**Chapter Ten:**

 **The Nightmare of Gotham**

Joker is growling like an irate dog at the mere presence of the vigilante. Nightwing is itching for a fight, willing it. I can imagine his smile beneath the mask.

Joker choses his words carefully. "Oh Lord, he's got himself another one. I've been telling the Bat for years that sidekicks cramp his style. Mind you, at least this one isn't wearing his pants on the outside."

Nightwing tilts his head. "He warned me that you like to talk, though shutting you up shouldn't be too hard."

Joker sighs heavily, undoing the button holding his jacket together and shrugging it from his shoulders, handing it to me theatrically.

"I do hate to do this in front of a lady."

Nightwing surveys the room quickly with his eyes. They fall on Leeland. "I think Harleen's seen much worse."

Joker growls under his breath. "She prefers Harley."

He picks up the weapon that Jeremiah used to kill Joan, caressing its edge lovingly. "Ah, memories. Makes me think of your predecessor. Did you ever hear the one about the robin and the crowbar?"

"Yep. It wasn't funny the first time."

Joker tuts. "Tough crowd."

He raises the crowbar over his head and charges at Nightwing, who raises his baton to defend the blow; when the two weapons meet, the charge runs straight through the crowbar and hits Joker like a bullet, causing him to cry out and drop the tool. It hits his foot as it falls, and as the clown reels from the blow, Nightwing thrusts the second baton against his chest, and Joker yells again, laughing in spite of the volts he's just conducted. He stumbles backwards, his hair to standing on end. Nightwing could take him now while he's recovering, but he doesn't want to end things so soon. He likes to talk, too.

"That's just a taste of what they can do," Nightwing grins, spinning the batons in the air and catching them effortlessly.

"I'll give you that one, kiddo," Joker giggles, smoothing his hair back down and shaking off the voltage with a holler. "Didn't think that one through. You know, the last boy wonder liked to play fair... then again, look where that got him."

Nightwing uses his thumbs to adjust the setting on his twin weapons, and both batons begin emitting a high-pitched buzz. "Let's crank these things up to eleven, shall we?"

Joker chuckles, crouching to grab for the machete with its wooden handle. "Don't threaten me with a good time!"

He swings it overhead and the vigilante has no choice but to use both batons to block the blow, as Joker slashes over and over at him, laughing wildly. The clown manages to evade each retaliating strike, surprisingly limber. Whilst the baton and the machete wrestle against one another, Joker brings his foot up and stomps on one of the batons, the rubber sole of his shoe absorbing the shock, and manages to kick it out of the young vigilante's hand; Nightwing punches him hard in the stomach, giving him the chance to reach down to retrieve his second weapon, but before he manages it Joker pounces on him and slams his hand into his neck, the only part of the young man not protected by his armoured suit. He laughs wildly as Nightwing begins to shudder, struggling to wrestle the hand from his neck while continuing to keep the machete at bay. Joker laughs wildly, a hand buzzer secured to his palm.

"Doesn't taste good, does it, kid?!"

Seizing his opportunity, knowing there's little chance he'll be able to avoid the blows of the knock-out electric shocks, Joker bounces backwards and over to me, taking the jacket from my hands and reaching inside its pocket as the young vigilante recovers from the sudden assault. It takes him a split second to assess what is about to happen, and in moments he siezes his second baton and charges forward, ready to disarm the clown, who pulls the gun; Nightwing springs to the left to avoid the inevitable bullet, but misjudges the clown's next move.

He does not aim the weapon at the vigilante.

He aims it at me.

With an arm around my shoulders, Joker holds the barrel of the gun to my temple, chuckling darkly. Nightwing freezes. I do not. I'm oddly calm, even with the gun to my temple; the antidote is causing my head to swim, so that I'm struggling to make sense of it all.

"Don't," the vigilante says.

"I won't, if you do something for me," Joker smiles. "Take off the mask. Take a good long inhale of my giggle gas. Do that, and I won't blast your new friend's cranial matter all over the carpet."

Nightwing is surprised at the suggestion. He laughs under his breath. "That is not going to happen, clown."

"Then this-" Joker mimes blowing my brains out- "-is."

"You're bluffing," Nightwing refutes him. "You've kept her alive this long. You won't just kill her."

"Clearly you haven't done your research," Joker says, and cocks the gun. My chest tightens. Nightwing's eyes are conflicted with doubt. He tries again to reason with the man, but his efforts are in vain. Loosing patience, Joker fires a single bullet past my ear, where it fixes itself into the opposing wall. I scream instinctively, my certainty wavering.

"So you're just going to shoot her? Why work to hard to get here here if-"

"You're stalling, kid. Your mentor should have told you that I don't do stalling. _Take. It. Off."_

The smoke in the room has begun to dissipate, the green fog loosening its hold on the room. Nightwing must be thinking the same, as he decides to take his chances. He disables the electric charge on the batons and secures them in their holsters.

"It's going to be okay, Harleen," he says, carefully raising his hands to undo the clasp. The moment they touch the mask, Joker pulls the gun away from my head and fires at the vigilante; the first bullet knocks him back, hitting in the armour plate across his chest, the second hits below his knee, and he yells out in agony as Joker takes my arm and pulls me from the room, straight up the corridor, racing over the dozens of corpses, inmate and officer alike, which litter the walkway.

I try to stay upright as we tumble across the bodies, my heart racing. I scream at the clown.

"What are you _doing?!"_

"We're making a clean getaway, doll face!" He yells, pulling me onwards. We're moments from the entrance, the doors flung wide-open by those who managed to escape the gas bomb, letting the gas out and a stream of afternoon light in. How can it still be light, when it feels as though I've spent days locked in this hellish place?

Joker is elated, his voice exasperated as he pulls me along the last few meters. "Oh, we are going to have _so much fun!_ I've got a couple of bent cops out there who are being well-paid to ensure we get away without a-"

The light vanishes. A dark, pointy-eared figure fills the entrance way. Both of us stop breathing. Joker's voice is a squeak.

"-Hitch."

The Batman is like something out of a nightmare. He is taller than I ever could have imagined, and wide enough to block out the daylight with his colossal frame. His suit is full armour, black with a steely glimmer. His mask is not the way I have seen it in the candid newspaper photos and television reports; it covers his face completely, and has narrow, red slits for eyes, which glow dully. The sounds his metal-clad boots make as he steps into the therapy unit are thunderous, though he moves slowly, a little lop-sided, like a wounded man. Instinctively I back away, but it's not me he's interested in.

Joker doesn't run away. He runs _towards_ his old friend, arms out to embrace him.

 _"Batsy-!"_

The Bat lifts Joker by the throat with an armoured glove and throws him against the wall almost effortlessly; Joker laughs as he slumps to the ground, landing atop one of the bodies as his adversary approaches, the vigilante raising an iron-clad fist and punching him across the face, spraying blood and teeth up the wall. Joker laughs louder, his eyes wide with prickly glee, taking another hit.

"That all you got, Bats? All this time apart, and I don't even get a proper _hello?"_

"Don't make me kill you," Batman says; his voice is altered electronically, a frightfully low growl.

"Ooh, Batsy, you're so _bad!_ " he teases, "A gal could fall for a guy like you."

The bat growls in response, and the clown's laughter soon becomes strained; iron gloves press red marks into his throat, and he begins to gurgle, straining for breath. I feel my own throat tighten at the memory. Joker splutters, still laughing, still trying to taunt the vigilante but unable to get his words out, scrambling to find his feet as he tries to pull the man's hands from his throat.

The bat shows no signs of letting up.

"Stop," I say, though not loud enough for him to take any notice. "Stop it!"

The Batman turns to me.

"Don't move, Quinzel," he tells me gruffly, and I'm unsure whether it's a warning or a threat. I'm amazed that he knows who I am.

"What's the matter, Bats?" Joker wheezes, turning as purple as his suit. "Are you _jealous?"_

In a panic, I find myself looking for a weapon. I know which side I should be on, but I won't let him kill him. I approach one of the officer's bodies and pull the telescopic steel baton from the holster at his side. I extend it and, with one swift motion and more bravery than I ever imagined I'd have, crack the Bat across the back of the skull.

He doesn't even flinch.

The resin which makes up his cowl cracks a little, but the man beneath it stays strong, undamaged. His grip on Joker's throat loosens ever so slightly as he turns to me; Joker begins to howl uncontrollably, the pallor returning to his face, as the Batman's red eyes watch me. I grip the baton tighter.

"Sorry," I squeak. The Bat growls, and drops the clown who crumples to the floor, coughing and laughing at the same time, so that he's in danger of choking on his own mirth. He spits blood onto the carpet.

"I knew you hadn't forgotten about me," he says, wheezing, "oh, it's Christmas. It's the fourth of July, it's Halloween, it's every holiday wrapped into one. Tell me you've missed me, Bats. Tell me you've missed me."

The Batman kicks him in the shoulder. There's a crack, and Joker yelps.

"I've missed you, too."

"Don't talk."

"Don't tell me you're still mad about Bird Boy? Oh, come on, darling, the kid's been dead almost a decade. I'm still here-!"

Crack. There goes a rib. Joker spits blood.

"...I'm sensing... anger."

"Looks like missed the party," says a familiar voice; I turn to see Nightwing limping towards us. There is a trail of wet crimson running down his leg, the bullet still wedged there; it must hurt like hell, but he hides his pain heroically. The first bullet which hit sits wedged within the v shape of his chest armour. The last of the green toxin leaves the unit through the open door, and Nightwing sees fit to remove the mask.

"Harleen, are you okay?"

I shake my head, barely there. He looks guilty. He turns his attentions to the clown, crumpled in the corner, and crouches down beside him, flicks him on the nose.

"Hello again, Mr. Jolly. Thanks for the bullet. That famous smile's not so pretty with a few teeth missing, is it?"

Joker tells him where to shove his batons. Nightwing chuckles, then reports to the Bat.

"I took down the goons who released the gas. They were masked up. Might need a trip to the infirmary, but they'll survive. Everyone else is dead in there. I counted eight SWATS, and there's a woman who he's smashed to a pulp with a crowbar."

"I haven't smashed anyone," Joker defends. "I never do the same gag twice."

Batman looks to me. Joker rolls his eyes.

"No, no, not _her._ Does she look like a smasher to you? It was Jeremiah Arkham." He pauses, letting the revelation sink in. "See, my dastardly Dark Knight, since you left me in here I've become quite the detective myself. I found out a few things about one of his colleagues that he didn't quite like, so he smashed her head in for it."

"Leeland," Batman says. "I've been looking into her involvement in Hawkins' spree for a while."

"See, this is what happens when you refuse to come and visit me!" Joker exclaims, _"communication,_ Batsy. It's the key to all good things. Think how quickly we could have cracked the case if we'd worked together! I'd make a much better sidekick than old Bluenose over there."

"Watch it," Nightwing warns, adjusting his stance to take pressure away from his wounded leg. "You took his gun, right?"

The Batman just stares at him.

"Just checking," Nightwing defends.

"Get me the CCTV footage then get back to the base," Batman instructs him, "patch up that leg. We're done here."

Joker laughs. "He'll have a job. I had the system for this sector trashed as soon as your little Nightingale sabotaged my hostage situation."

 _"Nightwing,"_ the young vigilante corrects, obviously irritated. "You sure you can deal with Chuckles by yourself, old man? You're not exactly on top form this afternoon, after all the-"

"He's never been any trouble before," the Bat growls quickly, cutting him off.

"Now that I can't believe," Nightwing retorts. He takes my arm. "Come on, Harleen. Let's get you away from this creep once and for all."

I stand still, conflicted, staring at Joker. He smiles at me with his red mouth.

"Don't you worry about me, kitten," he says lightly, wiping blood from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. "I'll be just fine here with my old buddy. Besides, we've got eight years worth of catching up to do. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other real soon."

He winks at me. I want to say something, do something, but I know that I can't, not with the Bat's red, glowering eyes watching.

Nightwing's hand moves up to my shoulder. "Let's get you home."

"That's what you don't understand," Joker laughs, waving his fingers in a curling motion as I'm lead from the room. "She _is_ home!"

Joker's laughter echoes down the hallway, haunting.

"Freak," Nightwing mumbles. "Looks like things got messy back there. You wanna talk about it?"

"No," I say. I try for a smile.

"Okay. You don't look too bad, anyhow. Did he hurt you?"

"No," I say, surprised. I let the slap slide. "Not at all."

"That's good. I thought for sure…" he frowns. "I'm sorry, Harleen. I shouldn't have left you up there in that vent. I never thought-"

"It's okay," I interrupt, and gesture to his leg. "It turned out alright. You've come out of it worse than me."

"Yeah," he chuckles awkwardly, "I guess. That stuff he wanted you to inject… it was the antidote, right? Notice you weren't choking up in there."

"Yeah."

"And you took it."

"Yeah. Eventually."

"Did he tell you what it was? Before, I mean?"

"No. He… he made me take it," I lie. Nightwing goes quiet. We cross the parking lot in silence, heading towards the gates where half a dozen ambulances and twice as many police cars surround the rear entrance of the asylum, paramedics seeing to the escaped officers and cuffed inmates, cops lingering around with cold cups of coffee in their hands.

"See the guy with the moustache?" Nightwing says once we're a few feet from the gates, "that's Commissioner Gordon. He'll sort you out; I need to go and find out if Giggles was lying about wiping the CCTV footage." Nightwing scratches the back of his head, staring off at the police cars. "Uh... I don't suppose... we still on for that drink?"

I smile sadly at him, and touch his arm with a fondness. He gives me the same smile back; sad, yet content.

"Yeah… didn't think so."

We linger a moment longer, uncertainly. He takes an antiseptic cloth from a capsule on his belt, meant for cleaning wounds in a hurry, I imagine.

"Here," he says, gesturing to my mouth. "You might wanna get that off."

I take the cloth and wipe at my lips. When I pull it away, I see that it is covered in Joker's red lipstick. I stare at it for a long moment, unable to look away.

Nightwing touches my shoulder. "You look after yourself, Harleen."

He removes the hand and walks away, back into the madhouse. I watch him re-enter the building before heading to the police commissioner, Joker's laughter still ringing in my ears.

"Always."


	12. Chapter Eleven: Coming Home

**Chapter Eleven:**

 **Coming Home**

As the graduation caps flutter down around us, the cheers of my fellow students are like songs on the air. I allow myself a moment to share in their joy, accepting hugs from strangers and spinning in my robes, but really all I'm thinking is, _thank God that's finally over with._

Mom is here, cheering and crying like a normal parent should. Dad sits in the car, waiting for her. A couple of my Blüd friends have travelled up in the car with them, and I'm more grateful than I can say for the support. As I break away from the crowd I head back over to them, drying Mom's tears on my oversized sleeve.

"It was hit and miss for a while there, baby, but you did it!" Mom says, squeezing me again. Her face falls into my loose hair. "I am so proud of you."

I squeeze her back. I don't feel proud of myself, which is such a strange feeling. The road towards graduation has been so rocky that all I'm really feeling is relief. I start to peel myself out of the overpriced ceremonial robes. My friend Chloe folds them over her arm. Mom senses me looking towards the carpark; she lets out a huge sigh.

"He'll come around," Chloe offers.

"Screw him," I say, but I don't really mean it. Mom scalds me for my comment.

"Harleen, don't. You know what you're father's like, he's... sensitive, for such a big man. Sensitive about _that_ in particular."

The _that_ she refers to is the cause of the argument which lead to him kicking me out three months ago, forcing me to move back to Gotham. I had decided during my compassionate leave after the takeover at Arkham that, after all the pain caused by my time working in the mental health services, I would not return to Blackgate, even if abandoning my placement meant that I would be removed from my university course. Luckily for me, because of the extreme mitigating circumstances, an exception was made and I was allowed to continue to the end of my degree without being on placement.

It was easy getting out of there. People considered me fragile, so I played to their expectations. When lunchtime rolled around the monday I'd made my mind up, I made my way to the Warden's office to ask him for a moment of his time at the end of the shift, where I handed over my resignation letter. I already foresaw how the exchange would go in my minds' eye; It would not be professional. I turned on the tears, gave the impression that Arkham's events had wounded me to the point of being incapable of continuing in such an environment. The Warden was, of course, understanding, felt sorry for me as I intended, and offered, as anticipated, to allow me to go earlier than the two-week notice agreement, should I wish to. I took it graciously, dabbing tears on a tissue he handed me from the box on his desk, left that hell hole behind me for good.

When I told my parents that I'd handed in my resignation at Blackgate, consequences be damned, an argument ensued. My dad argued that it would be irresponsible for me to throw my degree away when I'd worked so much harder than anyone else for it. I told him that it was irresponsible for a grown man to get caught up in a bank robbery and end up spending a decade in jail, leaving his wife and daughter to fend for themselves. He didn't like that. He told me that I had changed since that day at the asylum. I'm not the daughter he raised, he'd said; I couldn't help but laugh at the notion. Telling him that he was never there to raise me hits too close to home, and so he kicked me out, inspite of my mother's protests, which hurts more than I'll admit to. Mom still cries a lot. She visits me almost every weekend, at the little apartment I've found for myself here in the Narrows. You can see Arkham Island from my bedroom window.

When I awoke this morning, it was to a bunch of white roses laid out on my doorstep, with a small card wishing me the best and offering congratulations on this special day. The sight of them made me feel much less alone, and when I met up with Mom I thanked her for them; they were not, she said, a gift from her. I asked if he thought my Dad might have sent them anonymously as a stubborn sign of good will. She said maybe, her voice hopeful, but sad. My heart broke a little at her uncertainty. I tucked one of the sweet-smelling buds into my lapel before I left. It sits at my breast pocket now, soaking up the rarity which is sunshine in Gotham City.

My Dad is right about one thing; I have changed. I have less inhibitions, and laugh more easily. I speak my mind a little more freely than I otherwise might; before the events of the last two years, there's no way I'd have had the heart or the balls to say any of the things I did to my father. I decide that my new-found freedom is a result of my near-death experiences, an epiphany of sorts; it's much easier to live your life the way you want to when you've been so close to losing it.

Many things changed after that day. There were interviews, more like interrogations, in which the truth came out; the horrors at the asylum, all the things that Leeland did, Jeremiah murdering her. No one makes mention of the fact that I pulled the trigger. The police are so weighed under with the aftermath of the Arkham Takeover that the events which took place within the group therapy room become just another brick in the crumbling wall.

In spite of the truth being revealed, it never leaves the halls of the GCPD. Joan Leeland is remembered in the newspapers as another of the fallen, the tragic loss of an extremely talented woman. There was even a memorial speech for her by the head of the Psychology faculty at the departmental meeting ahead of the graduation ceremony, if you can believe it. I sat there biting my tongue, sweating, fists clenched. Mom had held my hand; she's the only person I told the about Leeland to. I never told her that I killed her, though.

With no one to fund it, the self-publication of Leelan's tell-all book was abandoned, though some cunning journalist managed to get hold of the document from the dead woman's personal files and leaked parts of it to the internet. The newspapers are happy with the colourful lie that she was killed because of her writing pursuits, happy in the assumption that Joker didn't like the idea of her making money from him. When asked about it in an interview which almost certainly never happened, one journalist claims that the Joker confessed to killing the Doctor because the picture she'd chosen for the cover wasn't of his good side; _then again,_ he's quoted, _I don't have a good side!_

I'm pulled from my thoughts by someone calling my name. I know immediately who the voice belongs to, though I can hardly believe it; but there he is, jogging over to us, looking ever so slightly out of breath.

"Have I missed it?"

It's Jack.

 _Not Jack,_ I correct myself. Jack was a lie. But it's not Nightwing, either. He's dressed normally, leather jacket and dark blue jeans. His hair is greased back, and he's grown a little stubble. He looks good.

"Oh," I say, like that's a substantial greeting.

"Hi, Harleen."

"Harley," I correct, smiling back now.

He seems uncomfortable. "Harley, huh? I thought you didn't like that name."

"It's kinda grown on me."

My Mom is on him quicker than Potiphar's wife. "Harls, are you not going to introduce us to your friend?"

"Oh. This is... uh..."

"Jack," he says quickly, "I'm studying Journalisim here."

Mom pinches his cheek with her long fake fingernails, a staple of all Blüdhaven moms. "Ain't he a handsome young man!"

"You must be Mrs. Quinzel," he smiles, taking her hand and kissing it. A thousand roses bloom in Mom's pink cheeks. "Now I know where Harley gets her looks from."

Mom laughs, loud and clear. It's a Blüdhaven laugh.

"And her charming accent," Jack says, letting her go. He looks back at me. "You look… different."

I know that much. The change in my worldview has lead me to some physical changes, too; I've bleached my hair a lighter shade of blonde, almost platinum, something I've always wanted to do but have never been brave enough to try, and now that I actually have time for myself and don't have the stress of work, I've started going to the gym and taking long walks, and any excess weight I've been carrying has begun to drop off as a result. I take up chewing gum to help in that respect, as a distraction from unhealthy foods. It's verging on obsessive behaviour at this point. I chew harder to distract from the thought.

"Good-different," he adds. "Brighter."

"Thanks," I smile, smoothing a hand over my new sunny hair. "...Guys, could you give us a second?"

My mother and friends oblige, toddling off to buy drinks from the cafe in the reception area.

"Nice flower," he says, pointing at the rose in my lapel.

"Thanks," I say, fingering its petals. "Were they your doing?"

He looks confused. "Um, no." Awkward silence.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

He grins. "Well, I didn't want to miss your graduation-"

"You've already missed my graduation."

"...Yeah. Sorry. I thought coming here would be a little bit less awkward than if I just turned up outside your house."

"You know where I live?"

He grimaces awkwardly. "It's vigilante stuff."

"So you've been keeping tabs on me," I say, unimpressed. "I thought Blüdhaven was your jurisdiction."

"I'm willing to make special exceptions for out-of-town Blüds," he says with a smirk, which quickly falls away. "I wanted to make sure that you're okay. Are you okay?"

"Better than ever," I say, blowing a bubble.

"You look it. Well, thing is, I've got some news."

 _Bad news,_ I think, and immediately fear that Jeremiah has killed himself. I say as much to Nightwing, or Jack, or whoever he is, and he quickly puts my mind at ease.

"No, no, but... it's the antidote for the toxin. I took a sample from the first vial, the one the clown wanted you to inject when he first released the gas. It's something we hadn't seen before, but when I ran it through the system I found something peculiar. You know about the Joker's… accident."

I clarify what he means. "The fall at ACE Chemicals?"

He nods. "The gas he uses is derived from the substance that turned him into what he is today. The antidote comes from the same compound. There's nothing set in stone, but… it's in your bloodstream. It may only be a fraction of the stuff, and I'm no scientist, but I think you should come with me for some blood tests. Just to be safe. Do you feel any different, in yourself?"

"No," I lie, chewing hard at my gum. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"That's not what I'm saying," Nightwing defends. "I just think it would be a good idea to get it checked out. You've been through a lot, Harlee... Harley. They say you've refused any support, any therapy or-"

"As of today I'm a therapist myself, remember. I'm not gonna pay to have people tell me things I already know. I'm perfectly capable of psychoanalysing myself when the need arises. There's nothing to worry about. I'm happy with who I am, finally."

"Can't fault you for that," he says quietly, but does not look content. He changes the subject. "Mad-Dog Hawkins is stable now. They've got him of whatever cocktail your old boss was pumping into his system." There's a pause. "Arkham has been very cooperative, I've heard. He's a model patient."

I frown at the very thought of my old friend. After that day Jeremiah received his own room in his Asylum, as a certified murderer and madman. I haven't plucked up the courage to visit him yet. It's not him I'm afraid of; it's the place itself. When I try to picture myself walking through those doors, all I see is _Him._

"He shouldn't have been locked away like that, not in his own institution. He only did what anyone else would do. I don't care what the papers say. I was there. Leeland deserved it." It feels good to say aloud. "They all sing her praises like she's some God damn hero, and she's _not._ She never was. I know it sounds awful, but she did. I'm not saying I'm glad that happened to her, but I don't blame Jeremiah. You shouldn't, either."

Nightwing nods, trying to understand. "Your former patient isn't behaving himself quite so well, though. He's had two new therapists so far, and both have left Arkham in body bags, even with twenty-four hour security and four orderlies who are assigned to his unit only. The board tried to keep it all under wraps, paid off the right people and bought the victim's families out to keep it out of the paper's, but nothing slips past the Bat. Or me." There's a tense pause. "I don't know how you managed to stay alive around the clown as long as you did."

Sick as it is, part of me is gratified with the knowledge that he's fighting against anyone who dare try to replace me.

"He's not all bad," I say, with a fondness. "No one out there is all good, either."

He gives me a worried look. I smile back.

"So... what's next for you?"

"Now that I'm finished with GCU, I'm taking a break from everything. I've been working if a cafe ofter the last couple of months just to cover the rent. It's easy, it's safe. I enjoy it. I'm gonna take some time to figure myself out again. I haven't felt like the real me since I started here, you know that? With everything that's happened, I just... lost track of myself."

"That Doesn't sound much like the responsible psychiatrist I met all those months ago."

"I'm tired of being responsible. All I'm responsible for now is my health, mental and physical, and that's doing me just fine. I'm getting back into my gymnastics again; I managed to do a front handspring this week for the first time in six years."

"That's pretty impressive." I've seen his gymnastic capabilities; I know he's being kind. "Stuck in the Narrows, though… it's no place for someone with a new-found zest for life like Harley Quinzel. You must have some pretty awesome friends to make this place feel like a party."

I laugh at that, shy away from his smile. He's a charmer. "I never really made any friends here in Gotham," I confess, chewing hard at my gum. "All my friends are back in Blüdhaven."

"Why didn't you stay there?"

"I needed to get away, have some alone time." A lie. I don't want to talk about my father.

"Well, just know you're always welcome back any time," he says. "Once a Blüd, always a Blüd, like they say."

"No one says that," I smile. He chuckles.

"Yeah, I guess not. Am I invited to your graduation meal?"

I smile. "I'm not having one. Mom and the girls have to get back to Blüdhaven. Their lift is waiting for them in the car."

"That's sad. You'll have to have one when you're back in Blüd. Will I be invited?"

" Sure, so long as you don't bring your friend with the pointy ears. I don't think he likes me."

"Well, he didn't break any of your bones, that usually means he likes you. Hey, if you're free now, maybe I could take you out for that drink to celebrate... and no, I'm not gonna let this one slide."

I laugh, not unkindly. "You can't even tell me your real name. Somehow I don't think it would work out."

He exhales dramatically, scratching at the base of his head. "Yeah… story of my life."

I touch his arm, in the same way I did the last time we parted. There's an understanding between us in that small gesture. He returns it, smiles, and starts to leave. Then, slowly, he turns back.

"Oh, and Harley, one more thing."

He frowns. There's a change in his tone.

"After the asylum the Bat sent me to assess the evidence they had in lock up at the GCPD, before their guys had a chance to tamper with anything. I thought it was unnecessary, but the Batman, he likes to be thorough."

I stare at him, squinting at the sunshine, knowing where this is going and oddly calm in spite of it. I will him to get to the point.

"I managed to get a hold of the gear they pulled from the therapy room. Your fingerprints were on the gun that killed Joan Leeland."

I continue to stare.

"I mean, she was pretty much dead already, after what Arkham did to her. But they were there."

Things go quiet between us.

"Hmm," I say, my nails digging into my palms. "Funny thing, that."

"Yeah," he says. His eyebrows knit together, his expression solemn. "Real funny."

The wind picks up. He buries his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and starts down the drive of the university, trying to hide his recovering limp as he goes. He offers me the same farewell as the last time we parted, called over his shoulder.

"You look after yourself, Harleen."

"Harley," I correct him quietly, as he walks away.

Mom rushes back over with the girls.

"Bye, Jack!" She calls, waving, but he's too far away to hear. She squeezes my shoulder.

"Harley, you never told me you had a boyfriend!"

"He's not my-"

"Oh, of course he is, don't be so coy! Well, it's about time! Isn't he a looker? And a Blüd, too. Your daddy will approve."

"Drop it, Mom," I say, too shortly and too unkindly. I immediately feel bad, but do not apologise.

When Mom and the girls have left, driving off in the car with Dad back to my hometown, I feel a deep well of emptiness in my stomach. I wish I'd said yes to that drink, wandering alone back to my apartment. I drop off my graduation robes at the shop I hired them from on the way, glad to see the back of the stupid things. When I arrive back at the apartment, it is cold and dark and empty, the leak in the ceiling _drip-drip-dripping_ into the small bucket I've arranged to catch it there. I sit in the window and look out over Gotham bay, across the Iron Sister's bridge- Mary and Betty, the towers are called. Behind them floats Arkham Island, a grey, drab speck in amongst a grey, black sea. From here the outline of the mansion can be seen, crooked and groaning with the weight of its history. I spend too much time staring at this old, grey place.

Arkham has been given yet another security revamp courtesy of Wayne Enterprises, so that the place has begun to look like a fortress. But you can't contain crazy. I've learned that now. It will always find a way to bleed out through the cracks, especially when you employ underpaid, overworked staff. I doubt it will be long before some nut-job gets loose. During the revamp, a unit completely separate from the rest of the asylum is built to house the Joker; word has it he's taken to calling it his Funhouse.

I think about the Clown often. I can't help but wonder what he had planned for us that day, had we managed to leave the asylum before the Batman had appeared. Where would he have taken me? Where would I be now? Dead, probably. But perhaps not. I dream about him almost every night.

They are not always nightmares.

It is then that I take notice of the boquet of roses I'd arranged on my windowsill before leaving for the graduation ceremony. To my great surprise, the beautiful blooms are no longer white.

Astounded, I examine the flowers. Pinching the end of the stem of one, a gooey coloured liquid bleeds out; the water the flowers came in must have been tainted with dye, which has blossomed into the flower' petals as it has supped up the moisture in its stem throughout the morning.

The roses have blossomed purple.

I struggle to process this for a few seconds. The conclusion I come to is ludicrous, but very much present.

 _Could it be...?_

My phone rings then. It's not very often I muster up the will to answer it anymore. But this number is unrecognised, local, and my curiosity gets the best of me. I pick up the phone and call?

"Hello? Harley Quinzel, here."

Of all people, it's Pearl, the receptionist at Arkham. I can't contain my surprise at hearing her voice; being Pearl, she completely goes off on a tangent about everything and nothing, filling me in on all of the gossip I couldn't care less about without giving me a moment to get a word in to ask why she's calling in the first place. There are some interesting tidbits, though; she tells me about the new Warden, a member of the board named Quincy Sharp, who hasn't won the love of the staff just yet. As he was unable to discover which of the security team and orderlies were feeding Joker information and involved in his escape, Sharp decided to fire all of them and hire a new team. This made both him and the board very unpopular among the established doctors and nurses, and has left the whole Asylum feeling very on edge.

"So Pearl, why are you calling me?"

"Oh, yeah! You know how I get, I just go off on one sometimes, like a horse out of the gates I am! Ha ha. Well anyway, this new Warden, he wants to meet with you. Hasn't told me why, you know how it is, nobody ever tells me anything in this place! But if you could come in next Monday at ten, that'd be very appreciated."

Her words stun me. Back to Arkham? Why? What could this new Warden want with me?

When I finally start paying attention to Pearl again, it is because I hear her mention the clown's name.

"Thank God you're away from that freak show at last," she quips between sips of coffee. "You were brave to go back at all after what he did to you. I mean, why was he so obsessed with you? Ugh. Creepy."

That comment stings, and I struggle not to bite back with something harsh.

"I was doing my job," I say sharply. She doesn't pick up on my defensive tone.

"Oh yeah, yeah, I get it. But some of these wackos just can't be helped, y'know?"

"Maybe some of them don't need helping," I say, the words rolling off my tongue without any forethought.

"You're right," she drawls, misreading my words. "Best way for some of them is to stick them in the electric chair and solve their problems once and for all, that's what I say."

I clench my fist against the table. I excuse myself, and hang up the phone.

~oOo~

Monday morning rolls around quickly. I pop into the cafe and tell them I won't be able to make it in, that it's related to the Arkham thing, that I've been called in. They understand; there have been a few days since I've been working there where I've simply been unable to leave the safe cocoon of my bedroom. The manager gives me a cup of coco to go I'm glad of their understanding as I walk across Arkham bridge, coco in hand.

I finish my drink before I reach the Asylum's gates, and as I pass through the security checks I can barely think through skittishness. It feels like my first day at work all over again. I am walking up the steps to Arkham Asylum, being escorted by a member of security. He wears a taser on his belt, just encase. _You know more than most that it's a good idea to be prepared for anything around here, Doctor Quinzel,_ he jokes. I do not find his joke very funny. He is quiet for the rest of the journey as he leads me through the cold grey halls.

My old colleagues, those who survived Quincy Sharp's staff cull, greet me with intrigue, as more of a spectacle than a fellow faculty member; as I sit in the waiting room a couple of them strike up conversations about goings-on at the institute or complains about the Warden, or try to squeeze out some gossip about the goings-on at our sister organisation, the penitentiary. One or two people ask how I'm doing after all of _'that nasty business'._ The general consensus is that I was very brave, and very lucky.

Shortly the door to the Warden's office opens. The Warden stands the other side, and when he sees me, he tries for a smile.

"Harleen!" he says, surprised. He stands there looking somewhat flustered. I look up from my flower in equal bemusement. "Please, come inside. Quickly."

The room which used to belong to Jeremiah is changed. Photos of someone else's wife and children now sit on the heavy oak desk. A different bespectacled man takes a seat in the dark velvet armchair, tapping rhythmically at the table with a sterling pen. Unlike Jeremiah, he looks perpetually nervous.

"Doctor Quinzel," he says as I close the door behind me. He shakes my hand hurriedly. I recognise him from the tour of the asylum; all of the board members were there, after all. Not all of them got off as lucky as Quincy Sharp.

 _Why is he so agitated?_ It seems very out of character for such an influential businessman; that's what he is foremost, I recognise, a businessman. Good with numbers, and sales, and profits. Jeremiah was always a doctor first, and an entrepreneur second. He was good with people.

"You know why I've asked you here today," Quincy says shakily, shuffling the papers at his desk needlessly. "It would be w-wonderful to have you here with us, that is to say, back with us, here at Arkham, again. Doctor Quinzel. I was so worried that the Warden over at Blackgate wouldn't agree to it, but he s-said you were quite keen, a-and I spoke with the board…"

"Are you alright, Mr. Sharp?" I ask, bewildered by his odd behaviour. He keeps calling me a Doctor. I am still not a doctor, not even with my degree finally under my belt. His hands freeze over the papers, and he looks up at me with what I recognise to be fear in his eyes. No one has ever looked at me like that before.

"Please," he says weakly, his pretences breaking. His voice lowers to barely a whisper as he leans closer to me, imploring. "I've done as he said. Everything he wanted, just as he asked. Have you ever met the Director, Alyce Sinner? She's impossible, I had to fight her like crazy to get you your job back, but I did it. Not that anyone else wanted the job. I pulled the right strings and made it happen, it was so difficult… please…"

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Sharp," I say. He panics again, and tries to smooth the situation over.

"Okay, okay. I understand. We- I- shouldn't talk about it. I- I'm sorry. I haven't told a soul, I swear. But… please, I have to ask… he'll leave them now, won't he? They won't be harmed?"

I'm utterly lost, a sense of dread bubbling up inside me. _"Who'll leave who?"_

"My wife and my girls!" he snaps, frustrated, before apologising once more, his voice back to a whisper. "Please, _please,_ I've done everything just as he wanted, no questions asked. I need to know."

I'm not sure how to react. The sense of dread I feel continues to boil as I piece things together. Unsure of what else to do, I nod reassuringly. Sharp breathes a deep sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank God. Thank you, Miss Quinzel, thank you. You'll tell him, won't you? You'll tell him that I did everything just as he said?"

"I... yes. I'll tell him."

Sharp thanks me again, struggling to retain his composure. Once he has calmed down, he has hands the papers over to me.

"What's this?" I ask. He freezes again.

"Please don't toy with me, Miss. My nerves can't last it. Once you sign you'll be his key worker exclusively. It's all been arranged, based on your previous experience handling the clown and what's happened to the last two who have tried to work with him. You'll have full oversight over how he is handled, and if you need anything, if you want anything changed... if he wants anything... it's done. You just come to me, and it's done. And the payrise, of course, you'll be paid the same as any other Doctor. It's been arranged. Now, please. Sign the paperwork and let's get this over with."

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. Joker's got to him, demanded I be reinstated as his therapist? One quick signature and the two of us will be working together again- just me and him, and no one to interfere?

I think of the money. I think of the opportunities. And most of all, I think of seeing him again.

And just like that, it's done. It's that simple. One signature, and I'm a member of the Arkham family again.

And it's exactly as Joker said; it feels like coming home.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Intensive Treatment

**Chapter Twelve:**

 **Intensive Treatment**

Four o'clock, Wednesday afternoon. I stand outside the Joker's facility, waiting for one of his orderlies to escort me to the specially built therapy room. There is no shame in my appearance; I don't try to disguise the fact that I've made an effort. Cherry-red heels slashed with silver, a black pencil skirt and an oxblood shirt, unbuttoned to my collar bones. My hair is in styled waves, my makeup carefully applied. No fake glasses or severe hairstyles, no frumpy white overcoat. I'm dressed to kill.

The young orderly who comes to escort me clearly notices this, too, and gawps when he sees me for the first time, his words coming out in a stutter. I don't think anyone has ever _gawped_ at me before. There's an odd smugness that comes with the realisation that my appearance could have that effect upon someone. It feels like power.

A second orderly joins us once we enter the building, and begins to describe the _dos'_ and _don't's_ once I get into the room with the clown. I'm not listening to a word he says; if anyone knows how to deal with Joker, it's me.

Two more orderlies are lingering outside the therapy room. The door to the unit has a panel of one-way glass, looking in on the therapy table. Joker sits with his hands bolted to the desk and his eyes closed, head tilted back to the ceiling. I can faintly hear him humming to himself. After so long away from him, I feel my insides come alive with nervous butterflies.

"I don't want any of you in there with me," I say with authority. The four orderlies look perplexed, and the largest of them moves to argue; I speak before he has a chance.

"He won't talk unless we're alone, he never does." A lie, but there's no need for them to know that.

"Have you got any idea what you're dealing with, lady?" the large orderly asks. I raise my eyebrows.

"The fact you even have the audacity to say that shows you have no idea how to act around someone as volatile as Joker," I respond, surprisingly vindictive. The orderly lowers his town and hisses,

"He's killed his last two psyches-!"

"And you haven't figured out why yet?!" I bark, letting the thought sink in. "You all know who I am. Believe me, none of you are even a fraction as close as I am to understanding that man in there. I won't have you four ruining my patient's rehabilitation."

"The higher-ups ain't gonna allow it," another of the orderlies says, "it goes against all our policies-"

"Then call up Warden Sharp," I say, keeping my cards close to my chest. "We'll see what he has to say on the matter."

After a little more confrontation, they agree to do so. I sit on a bench with the youngest of the orderlies as another makes the call; when he returns, he looks astounded.

"He approved it," he tells the others. "Says to listen to whatever Doctor Quinzel says. Apparently, she knows what she's doing."

I smirk wickedly. The four men have no choice but to let me into the therapy room armed with a panic buzzer and reassurance that they'll be waiting outside should any trouble start.

"Don't disturb us," I say calmly to the orderlies. "This may take longer than usual."

The door to the therapy room is opened. Joker stops humming his tune, opens his eyes a fraction, and lets out a low wolf-whistle instead.

"Here comes trouble."

I smirk as I step towards the therapy table, avoiding eye contact but walking with purpose, my heels clattering loudly with each step. He makes another comment which makes me blush as I take my seat, pushing my notebook and paperwork to the side. I won't be using it. The tape recorder remains untouched on the desk, and I place the panic buzzer atop the pile of papers.

Joker leans forward, grinning, showing off his new teeth, granted as a replacement for the ones he lost to the Batman's iron fist. He runs his tongue across them.

"What'dya think?"

"Very handsome," I say. He grins again, lazily.

"I can tell you meant that. You. Look. _Ravishing."_

He looks good, too. Better fed, less sinewy, though the colour in his hair has faded again. There are no smart shirts or hair products now. He sits in white asylum linens with his patient number printed over his heart.

He waits for me to speak, but I don't feel quite ready to initiate anything yet.

"Did you like your flowers?"

I nod. "They were beautiful."

"Just like you. I thought you'd appreciate them. You missed me?"

There's a pause in which I don't reply.

"Well, either way, I've missed you. Did you get all dolled up just for little old me? I'm flattered. I feel so under-dressed. The Arkham wardrobe isn't much to my taste, and whoever does the laundry for this place clearly doesn't have much zest for their job."

"How the hell did you pull this off?" I ask candidly. "The Warden said that his family…"

"Oh, don't worry about all that. A few bribes here, a blackmail or two there. It's easy when you know how, and if you've done it once, you can do it a thousand times. The important thing is, here _you_ are! I knew you wouldn't let me down!"

It concerns me how quickly I jumped at the chance to be transferred back to Arkham to take the Joker's case again. But I did, and here I am.

"This is how you wanted it from the beginning," I say, knowing that it's the truth. "Leeland gone. Jeremiah out of the picture."

"You have to admit there's a beautiful irony to him being locked up in his own asylum."

I nod, understanding him, the way his mind turns things over. It feels good to be speaking honestly with each other.

"So where do I end up in your plan of action? Dead, incarcerated, or something else?"

"Well, that's up to Harleen Quinzel. I quite like where we are right now; I've always lived for these moments with you."

"Be honest with me, Joker."

He studies me for a long while.

"You want honest? Fine."

His voice goes quieter as he leans in closer. I can sense his agitation.

"I want out of here, baby. This place is boiling my blood, driving me up the walls and around every bend. I can't stand it in here any longer."

"If you start talking like that they'll put you on suicide watch," I warn him.

"I've killed a man with a plastic spoon, do you really think I wouldn't be able to top myself under the watchful eyes of twenty-four-hour surveillance? Though, at this point, the thought of taking myself out of this existential nightmare is starting to sound rather tempting."

"Don't talk like that," I scald him, concern in my tone. He pouts to hide a smile.

"Aww, you really do care. But I am being serious," he says whimsically, "for once. I can't stay in here much longer, Harls. I'm losing what few marbles I have left."

I frown. "What is it you're asking me to do?"

He grins, stretching his hands forwards in the restraints so that his fingers are just close enough to tap the tips of my own. I think about pulling away, but don't.

"I know a guy," he says slowly, toying with my fingers, teasing me, tapping one after the other with each syllable. "He knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a few other guys who are the right guys for the job. Maybe if you could talk to him for me…"

I answer him firmly. "I can't get you out of here, Joker. That's a line I won't cross."

His temperament changes, though he still smiles. It coils like a snake and unwinds itself into a new, more grotesque shape.

" _'A line you won't cross?'_ Oh, you've crossed plenty of lines, my little harlequin." He pauses, lowers his tone. "You do realise that you're a murderer now."

The word jolts through me like a thousand vaults. "Don't," I say venomously.

"Don't what? Tell the truth?"

I draw my hands back. "I am not a murderer."

He feigns confusion. "No? You fired the bullet that ended Joan Leeland's life. Get me a dictionary and I'll show you the definition. You're _textbook."_

"It was a mercy killing."

"It's in the name, my love. Mercy _killing."_

"I had to," I hiss. "There was no choice."

He smiles at me knowingly. "Oh, come on. You have to admit that some part of you wanted to do it. After all she did to you? To _me?_ I bet there was a part of you somewhere that just couldn't wait to pull that trigger."

I struggle to fight him. "We're not all like you."

"Oh, you are. You just don't like admitting it to yourselves. All it takes is one bad day."

"I've had a lot of bad days."

"Believe me, I know. Yet you're still here."

I tilt my head. "Is that what you want? You want me to go away?"

"No, no… I want _you_. Not this washed-out, diluted persona. I want my Harley."

"I ain't your nothing."

He laughs. _"There_ she is! That's my girl. She's just dying to come out and play, but moody old Doctor Q is keeping her locked up. I hear you, Harley!" he says, looking at me but _through_ me. He raises his voice. "I'm listening, even if _she_ isn't!"

"That's enough, Joker."

"Don't worry, we'll get you out of there soon enough!"

 _"Stop it!"_

He clenches his fist on the table and slams it down. Again, the snake changes its skin.

 _"_ _You_ stop it. Look at you." His voice is riddled with disgust. "You came in here expecting world war three. Don't deny that you did. You come in dressed like that, brazen as brass, no panic button, no guards, no nothing. If you wanted a repeat of last time, you should have just asked. I'm all for a bit of _erotic asphyxiation-"_

I slap him.

The sound of my palm making contact with his cheek is like the crashing of a wave. _How dare you,_ I want to say, _you almost killed me, you bastard, I hate you._ There is no time for any of that, as realisation at what I've just done quickly sets in, and an encompassing fear comes with it. I remain silent, shying back from him as far as possible without leaving my seat. Alarm bells in my head tell me to get out of here now, but I stand my ground.

He holds his face in the direction it flew when my hand struck for a long time. When he turns back to centre, his eyes have darkened. He looks up at me, his head lowered, and growls his next words.

"You are very, _very_ lucky that my hands are strapped to this table."

I believe it. I close my eyes, struggling to maintain my composure. I've been more emotional than usual lately. If I shed a tear, let my voice crack, he'll know that he's won.

"She was already dead," I say eventually, reeling the conversation back to its start. "You made sure of that, when..." _No no no, don't blame him for Jeremiah. It'll only come back to haunt you._ "Besides… you _made_ me do it."

He exhales audibly. "I've never forced you to do anything," he replies nonchalantly, flicking a speck of dust from the cuff of his sleeve. The slap seems suddenly forgotten, like a predator that's lost the scent of its prey. "Not unless it was for your own good."

"You think you know what's best for me?!"

"I think I know you better than anyone else, Harley Quinn. And I think you're fooling yourself if you choose to believe otherwise."

I frown. _The sick thing is, he might just be right._

It's a long time before I can bring myself to speak again.

"You don't seem to understand that I have a life outside of these walls. And I... I can't get you out of here, Joker. I'm sorry, but I can't. Then we'd both end up in here, and what good would that do either of us?"

"I don't know. Sounds like fun if you ask me. Maybe they'd let us bunk up together."

"I won't do it. I can't."

He stops, looks up at me. I expect some sort of backlash, but surprisingly receive none; he just sighs, smiles, and leans back in his chair.

"I know, I know. Just thought I'd try my luck. …So, what have you been doing with yourself since the Bat and his brightly-coloured sidekick saw fit to split us apart?"

"…Nothing much," I reply dismissively. "But there is something I wanted to ask you about that day."

"I'm all ears. Unlike Frederick, God rest his soul. Do you know that that great oaf they've put in charge of my unit is his brother? Lyle Bolton. Ex-marine, great big stupid ape of a man. He doesn't like me, understandably, but I think I'm winning him around."

"The antidote," I say, not letting him lead the conversation somewhere else. Nerves bubble through me again. "The _'sidekick'_ paid me a visit, told me he'd analysed the formula and found that it was derived from the same compound that made you into… what you are. Is that true?"

His expression sours. "You shouldn't listen to flying rodents when they try whispering in your ear. You should break their little wings and stamp on them instead."

"Please, Joker," I plead. He sighs, but complies none the less.

"It immunised you against the toxin in the same way a vaccine would, by exposing you to the toxin itself. My giggle gas was, yes, developed from the chemical I took a tumble into, which is why I'm naturally immune." He pauses for effect. "So to answer your question, Doc, yes. You've got a little bit of whatever's wrong with me in you too."

"Has it… is there any way it can affect me? Change me?"

"Why? Do you feel different?"

 _Yes,_ I think. That's not what comes out of my mouth.

"I… I'm not sure."

"Well, in truth, I don't know. You're the only person I've ever wanted to use it on."

I can't help but be touched by the gesture, no matter how warped it might be.

"I employed Doctor Crane to help me out with this sort of thing before he got himself caught and the two of us almost ended up sharing a cell in this hell hole. One thing he was certain of, though, is that the antidote only works as a temporary measure; say if I gassed this room right now, you'd need another injection of the good stuff pronto to stop you from dropping dead..."

He pauses, leans in closer.

"Or I could just let you to drop dead."

No smile. He says it like he means it.

I put both hands flat on the table. They are shaking.

"I think we're done here," I say quietly, and gather up my paperwork.

"We're not done until I say we're done," he growls, locking his jaw. "This is _my_ session time. Until it's up, I _own_ you."

I check the clock, tense all over. When I speak, my voice is nowhere near as authoritative as I mean it to be.

"You don't get to make the rules here. I'm the therapist. I decide what's right for you."

He laughs. "Funny word, isn't it, _therapist._ Not one to misspell on the paperwork. One little typing error and the doctor becomes the patient."

I say nothing, heading for the door.

"Well, I think we've made some progress here today," he says. "Good talk. Same time next week?"

"Maybe," I say, avoiding looking at him altogether. He laughs as I leave, and I know why:

We both know I'll be back for more.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Hope to Die

**Chapter Thirteen:**

 **Hope to Die**

Sharp calls me to his office the following morning, to ensure that Joker is satisfied with his work, and will not have any harm brought to his family. I assure him yes, Joker is happy, and they'll all be safe. I don't know this of course; I never cared to ask. It suits me to have Sharp think I'm in cohorts with the clown, though. I imagine he'll do any little thing I ask, if he thinks there's a possibility his actions, or lack of them, could come back upon his family. It's not a nice thing to do, playing his disadvantage to my advantage, but if the past two years have taught me anything, it's that you can't afford to be nice at Arkham Asylum.

"Ever since that day, Arkham has become the ninth circle of hell because of him. Even in his own unit, the amount of trouble he's caused…"

"He's a megalomaniac," I remind Sharp. "He feeds off control, _power,_ and you've taken all of his from him. Of course he's going to act up."

 _"_ _Act up?_ Miss Quinzel, you have no idea. You wouldn't believe… the things that man is capable of, the things he's done…"

"The whole staff team knows about the two doctors," I tell him, guessing at what he's referring to. His eyes go wide, asking how they could have learned such a thing. I tug twice on an earlobe. "Not from me, of course. But the walls have ears, Mr. Sharp."

Quincy sinks into his chair. He presses his fingertips to his forehead, in hopeless frustration.

"When he first came to me… when he asked me to have you reinstated… I was going to go to the cops. I don't know how he knew- how could he possibly have known? But the next morning a funeral wreath arrived at my house spelling out my wife's name. I burned it in the backyard, then made the phone calls to get the wheels in motion, instead of calling the police. The idea that that man knows where my children sleep... why, it's enough to..."

I take it in in silence.

"You must hate me," I say. "Look, I get it. You didn't ask for any of this. But bear in mind, I didn't either."

He lowers his hand, eyes me questioningly. I tell him something I've finally come to understand.

"We're in the same boat, you and me... and believe me, it's sinking. We're all playing his game, Sharpie, whether we like it or not. Joan and Jeremiah learned that the hard way. Whatever the outcome, Joker comes out laughing. He always gets what he wants in the end."

Sharp blows his nose on a handkerchief. "So what do I do?"

"Don't fight it," I tell him. "Thrash around too much and you'll exhaust yourself and sink anyway. Let the waves carry you."

He frowns. "Is that what you do, Doctor Quinzel?"

I give him a small smile and stand. "Nice talking to you, Mr. Sharp."

~oOo~

I don't know whether I'm dreading our next session or excited for it, but it certainly could not come around quick enough. Our last session together had not gone the way I had expected… I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't the mess our last session had derailed into. Maybe he's right; maybe I _was_ asking for trouble.

Well, if its trouble he wants, it's trouble he'll get. I decide to punish Joker in my own way, by having two of the orderlies sit in on the session. I make sure Frederick's brother is there. They stand either side of the door, arms folded, not saying a word, but their presence is very much felt, especially by the clown. He sits on the opposite side of the table to me, not saying a word but speaking volumes with his body language; his fingers tap agitatedly against the table top he is secured to, and his eyes move frantically about the room, between our three faces. I sit back and wait for him to speak. He won't hold out much longer; he's never been one for awkward silences.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks eventually, grimacing at the notion. "I get the feeling that you are."

I keep my expression purposefully blank. "Why would I be mad at you?"

His fingers stop tapping. "Oh, God, you _are_ mad at me. Look, I'm sorry. I know we didn't exactly get off to a great start last session. I didn't mean the things I said… well, not _all_ of them... aaaand now I'm just making things worse. I'm sorry. I'll shut up."

He does, but not for long. A couple minutes more of silence and he can stand it no more.

"So am I forgiven?"

I stare at him a while longer. He gives me a hopeful smile, showing no teeth.

"Yeah. I suppose you are."

"Fantastic," he grins, clapping his hands against the table. "Does that mean we can get rid of Thing One and Thing Two? Pretty please?"

"Are you going to behave yourself?"

There's a flicker of agitation in his eyes. "Of course."

"Are you sure?"

"As positive as a runaway's pregnancy test."

I look to the two orderlies, then back to the clown. I tell the guards that they can leave. They do so cautiously, closing the door behind them quietly as they go.

"Things are so much better without the two Tweedles around. You know, I've been thinking- there's a lot of time for that sort of thing when you're locked up for twenty-three hours a day- and I am sorry about last week. I was being selfish. Inconsiderate of your… needs. You were right, you do have a life outside of this room. And it got me thinking… all this time we've been doing this, all those hours talking about inner feelings and trying to recover childhood memories, and I've never asked you about _your_ feelings. Your memories."

"There's a reason for that, Joker."

"I know, I know, _you're the therapist, I'm the patient, yada yada yada._ But we're more than that, aren't we? All the things we've been through together, the fun and the foibles, you can't deny there's more to this than just ink-blots and CBT."

No, I can't. Of course I can't. Hard as I once tried, this was never going to be just a professional relationship.

"Fine," I say, shutting off the tape recorder. "What do you want to know?"

He smiles, leaning in as close as possible. _"Everything."_

So that's what I tell him. Everything. Growing up in Blüdhaven, my dad getting sent to Blackgate, the struggles my mom and I faced, trying to get by without him. I tell him what school I went to, the subjects I was best at, the teachers who inspired me. I tell him how I excelled in gymnastics until other more important subjects got in the way. How hard it was adjusting when my dad finally got released. I tell him about my first kiss. He doesn't like that, so I gloss over the rest of my romantic history. There's nothing much to gloss over anyway.

I tell him about starting college, the struggle to make friends and eventual abandon of that struggle. I tell him about my interview at Arkham, my first meetings with Leeland and Jeremiah.

 _And then I met you,_ I say. _And here we are._

"Here we are," he repeats. An amen. "Would you change any of it?"

I avoid the question. "Would you?"

He grins. "Doctor Quinzel, if you think I'd change any of this, you haven't been paying attention."

I smile. "This is serious, Joker."

"Sorry. I do struggle with the notion of being serious… but no. I wouldn't change a thing. Start meddling with your past and all the wires get crossed. It's like trying to untangle a cable. I learned that the hard way. You start forgetting what's real and what isn't, and eventually you stop caring. But I wouldn't want to forget a single thing about you."

I feel myself blushing. "Do you really mean that?"

"Cross my heart and hope to-" he tries to raise his fingers to his chest, but fails. "…Well, you know the rest."

I giggle, and move my foot beneath the table and touch his leg with my heel.

"I've actually missed you, you know," I say with a cautious smile, tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear. "I really have. I must be going nuts."

He smiles, and leans close enough that his breath tickles my neck when he laughs.

"I've heard there's a lot of that going around these days. Must be something in the water. But hey, it's not so bad, once you get used to it."

The air in the room changes. There's a sudden tension, the two of us being so close, breathing the same air. I hadn't even realised I was leaning towards him, but our faces are almost close enough to touch. Joker feels it, too; there's a change in his eyes, and his grin softens into a languid smile. I let my hand come to a rest upon his own, my touch feather-light.

He tilts his head and leans forward, closing the gap between us. He pauses, breathes in. I close my eyes as our lips are about to touch, my heart fluttering within my chest.

 _Knock knock knock._

There's a low growl in Joker's throat. Neither of us moves as the door to the therapy room opens.

"Doctor Quinzel?" the head of the orderlies, Lyle, says. "…Ah, it's seven o'clock. Patient's exercise hour."

I don't acknowledge the orderly. I'm washed with disappointment at the moment lost, suspended in that place between connection and distance. Joker bites his lip, and reels back slowly. That brings me back to my senses, and I finally draw back into my seat. Joker offers me a wry smile as the orderlies move in to unbuckle him from the table top.

"What Lyle means by exercise hour is that it's time for my daily beating," Joker says as his hands are bound behind his back. "Frederick was his brother afterall, and he and his boys are making sure I don't forget it."

"Be quiet, clown."

"Never go for the face though, do we lads? No no no, they're too clever for that, though you wouldn't know it from the looks of them. My grinning visage is as handsome as ever, but beneath this fine prison attire, my oh my, you wouldn't _believe_ the state of me, Harley! I look like I've been trampled on by an obese elephant! _Ha!"_

"I said _quiet,_ clown!" Lyle barks, having his subordinates lead the man from the room. As he moves to follow them, I grab his arm and stop him.

"Is that true?" I ask.

Lyle folds his arms. "You know what he's like, Doctor Quinzel. He makes up all sorts of crap to get attention. He faked a heart attack a couple weeks ago just so he could make a crummy joke. It wasn't even that funny, he said-"

"I really don't want to hear it," I say sharply. "I'll be back at the same time next Wednesday."

"Looking forward to it," Lyle mumbles, in a tone which suggests he is very much _not_ looking forward to it. I smack my gum at him before leaving.

I toss and turn that night; sleep is impossible, as I turn over and over in my mind whether Joker was telling the truth about the orderlies. What if he's sat in his cell right now, battered and bruised below the neck? The thought is impossible to push from my mind, and I decide that I'll keep an extra close eye on his four handlers.

That isn't the biggest thing on my mind, though. I can't stop reliving the possibility of that kiss, my heart fluttering with excitement even now at the thought of it; that indescribable, other-worldly feeling of connection, and the distress at it having being interrupted before its actualization. I keep replaying the scenario, imagining what that kiss would have been. What would we have said afterwards, what would we have done?

I almost forget that he's kissed me before.

~oOo~

"That's what he said!" Joker beams, as I try to stem the tears of laughter that are rolling down my face. "I've no idea how I got out of there with all my limbs still attached. I'm telling you, that Harvey Dent is a real hoot. But he's someone whose _good side_ you want to stay on, though, because that Two-Face…"

That only makes me laugh more, to the point where I can't catch my breath. Joker laughs at my laughter, and soon enough the pair of us are giggling like maniacs, our foreheads pressed together. I squeeze his hands in my own, the last of my giggles deteriorating. As the laughter patters out, he lifts his chin and kisses my forehead. I wipe my eyes on my shirt sleeve and sigh, still smiling.

"You're a funny guy, has anyone ever told you that?"

"It's been said before on occasion," he smiles. "Look at you, all giggly. Your accent comes out more when you're excited."

"Oh God, don't remind me," I cringe, rolling my eyes. "You can take the girl out of Blüdhaven, but you can't take the Blüdhaven outta the girl."

"I like it," Joker says in defence of my accent. "It's... cute."

"You think so?"

"I think so."

I smile, a little shyly. When I glance up at the clock, and see that we have ran over our session by fifteen minutes.

"I gotta go," I say, fingering my papers. "It's quarter to six."

"Hasn't stopped you before," Joker says, teasing me. "You stayed until gone seven last week, remember?"

"I know, but today I've got an appointment with Mr. Sharp."

"What for?"

I tap the side of my nose as I slip the panic button back into my pocket. "It's a secret."

His tone is stormy. "We shouldn't have secrets from each other, Harley."

"Something tells me you'll quite like this one. See you next week," I say, throwing him a wink as I head for the door. He lets out a sigh.

"I hate to see you go, Harls, but I love to watch you leave."

"Goodbye, Mr. J," I say in a condescending tone, shaking my head with a smirk. When I arrive at Quincy's office, he is waiting for me, looking agitated and nervous.

"Afternoon, Doctor," I say, taking the seat opposing his. "Thanks for seeing me."

He is frowning. We both know he wouldn't have dared to say no to me. "Miss Quinzel."

"Joker wanted me to talk to you. He wants you to double our session time."

"He wants… what?"

"Two sessions a week, he's asking for. Preferably on Friday afternoons, though Tuesday's good too."

So far, I've been doing my usual four shifts at the cafe then coming in on my day off to conduct Joker's sessions. I think it's about time that changes.

"He wants more therapy?" he says, confused. "...And that's it?"

"That's all he's asking for," I say with a shrug.

"Fine," Sharp says, throwing up his hands in defeat. "If that's what he wants, then fine."

I tilt my head. "You don't seem very fine with it, Mr. Sharp."

He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to shake off some ill feeling. Words come spilling out of him then, things he's been trying to restrain. "We can't just pander to his every whim. We're supposed to be the ones in charge, he's here to be _helped._ " _Restrained,_ I think, but say nothing. "How can we ever hope to help him when we're giving him whatever he wants? You want to help him, don't you, Doctor Quinzel?"

"Of course I do."

He holds a hand out to me, imploring. "Then have some sympathy," he says, desperate. "You're a reasonable woman. My _family-"_

I change tactics. From the oppressor, to the oppressed. "You're not the only one with a family, Mr. Sharp."

He looks up at me, confused.

"He knows about my parents, back in Blüdhaven," I say weakly, allowing my voice to crack, melting away some a falsified false composure. I fake an emotional struggle, using the time to mould my story. "That's why I came back here in the first place. I knew it could only have come through him. I didn't wanna take the risk, you know?"

There's a moment when he flounders at this new possibility. "I thought… I thought you were… then you _do_ understand, Harleen! Listen to me, the police can help us-!"

"No," I say firmly. "I've had plenty of experience with the police in this town. The GCPD are incompetent, and Joker _always_ knows, no matter what. He always finds out, and you always pay the consequences… believe me. Giving him what he wants is the only way to keep them safe, Quincy. It isn't worth the risk. Our little sacrifices for the safety of the people we love. An afternoon of therapy for the sake of my families lives sounds like a pretty good deal to me. And I understand what you're thinking; _an hour of therapy today, but what will he ask for tomorrow? The week after that? Where does it end?_ Maybe it doesn't, but the real question, I suppose, is where we draw the line. How much we care."

Quincy seems to understand, but is still in a state of worry.

"No police," he sighs. "Tell the clown he can have his extra session."

I nod solemnly. "He'll appreciate that."

And he does. When I tell Joker about the extra sessions I've ensured the following Wednesday, he beams with joy.

"You wicked little thing," Joker grins once I've told him the ins and outs of how I secured our extra time together. I omit the lie about my parents, making Sharp think I was just another pawn in Joker's game. "I knew you were more than just a pretty face."

"You've always known that," I correct him, settling into my chair. "So, how has your week been?"

"Oh, the usual. Lots of padded walls and straitjackets and medications. Oh, and the occasional beating from the boys, of course."

I reach out to him and move the fabric of his collar aside with gentle fingers. True to his word, he is lightly bruised across his collarbone.

"Jesus, Joker..."

"...And the Holy Ghost, too. Don't worry about it, it's all in good fun."

I frown. "Not everything's funny, Mr. J."

"No. Most things are, though." He shrugs my hand away. "Enough about me. How's your week been? I like to hear about the world outside these walls."

"Well, I've handed in my resignation at the cafe. I'll be pulling in more cash from two shifts here than the four days I've been working there combined."

"Don't tell me that's why you've decided to pay me an extra visit?"

"No," I say, "I just love to see your charming face. But it will make life easier."

"I'm sure. Any word from Papa Quinzel yet?"

I look down. "Nothing yet."

"His loss," Joker says. "You're better off without him, Harls. Remember, fathers- hey, look at me when I'm talking to you." I do. The tendons in his bleached neck tighten. "Remember that father's tend to be best at bringing out our bad sides."

That hurts a little. I think back to the story he told me about his own father, one of the only memories he has of his life before the fall. That sentiment was certainly true in his case.

"I don't want to talk about him," I say, brushing the negativity off. "Tell me another story."

He happily obliges, and soon enough I'm laughing as freely as I did last session, wiping away tears of laughter. His impression of the Penguin, a goon who was at large when I was just a little girl, is spot on. Joker matches each of my laughs with his own, the sound so distinctive that the youngest of the orderlies knocks on the door to check that everything's alright; they're only used to hear Joker laugh so freely when something terrible has happened. I wonder how often they've expected to find me dead after opening the door.

"Does he always look at you like that?" Joker asks after the orderly, his expression sour. "As though he's trying to decide whether you'd taste better with ketchup or barbecue sauce?"

"Yeah... he's a weird kid," I shrug, though the orderlies glances make me feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"Well, he better stop looking, or I'll spoon out his eyes, puree them and pour the mixture back into his eye sockets."

I swallow back shock. I forget sometimes how volatile he can be. "That is... highly disturbed."

"Sorry, sweetness. I've never been too good with these things."

"These _'things'_ are called _people,"_ I half-joke. He laughs regardless.

When the time comes for me to leave, Joker deflates a little.

"So soon?"

"I'll be back same time on Friday," I reassure him as I stand. "With double sessions you'll be sick of me by the end of the month."

"Oh, I doubt that. You're my only bit of happiness in this cold grey world."

His words stop me in my tracks. I try to compose myself, retain some semblance of professionalism, and it's like swallowing back my heart.

He's smiling at me again. "Can I have a good night peck on the cheek, before you go?"

I smirk. "That wouldn't be very professional of me now, would it, Mr. J?"

I find that I am gravitating towards him anyway. I let my hand dance across the table as I pause beside him, bending down to kiss his cheek. As I do he turns his face so that our lips meet in a sudden shock-wave; I pull back in surprise, silent.

And suddenly I'm seeing nothing but him, not just his eyes and his lips and his alabaster skin, but everything he is; and without another thought I'm leaning back in, pressing my lips to his, skin to skin and soul to soul. I brush my hand through his hair, draw my knee up into his lap and loose myself in him, each curvature of muscle and returned kiss a seal of his approval, a share in his effervescence. When our lips break apart it is as though a deal has been made, some secret forged.

Neither of us say a word as I gather my things again, breathless, though our eyes do not wander from each other's from a second. As I draw my hand away from his face, he turns to kiss the inside of my wrist. I smile, shy as a schoolgirl, and make for the exit.

"Sweet dreams," Joker whispers.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Simple Restraints

**Chapter Fourteen:**

 **Simple Restraints**

So much of the year passes by in a blur. With my paycheck from Arkham I'm able to live quite comfortably in my tiny apartment, with a little left over for myself; I take a self-defence course and excel in the class. My gymnastic capabilities continue to improve. I think about jet-setting off on holiday, treating my mum to a week abroad somewhere sophisticated, like Paris or London or Venice. I think about it, but Joker wouldn't like it. He wouldn't like me to leave him alone.

When I'm not in the midst of a session with Joker, my time at the Asylum is spent filling in paperwork and expanding my research on the man. I do not interact with any of the other patients, aside from performing observations and occasional cover work. I used to delight in spending time with the quiet, overlooked patients, but I have no room for anyone else. Not anymore. I finally understand what Joker meant when he said that he lived for our sessions together. I finally feel the same way.

Another Wednesday rolls around. It's late March now, very nearly a year since I returned to the Asylum. I crawl out of bed to find that I have another missed call from my mom, with an answering machine message that I cannot bring myself to listen to; I feel too guilty to even hear her voice, having distanced myself for so long. I know that I should call her back, but I don't feel like I can just yet. I've found excuses whenever she's tried to come and visit, making imaginary plans with imaginary friends. It's been so long since we spoke, and she'll only want me to make things up with Dad; my parents don't even know that I'm back at Arkham.

I dress, snap up some breakfast and walk into the Asylum half an hour later than I should have arrived. This wins me a few sour looks from other staff, but I care so little about their opinions that I just smile back and wish them a good morning. One of them apparently took up their concerns over my _'lack of work ethic'_ with Quincy, who pretty much told them to mind their own business. I think he feels sorry for me, believing that the two of us are in the same boat, and part of him is undoubtedly still scared of me. _Good._

At four o'clock I'm waiting at the door to Joker's facility, itching to get inside. The youngest of the orderlies comes to let me in. I know now that his name is Danny. He looks more and more stressed each time I see him. I enter the unit chewing gum, something I shouldn't really have on premises, but is it really that big a deal? What are they gonna do, sack me for blowing bubbles?

"Afternoon, boys," I say as I meet with the others. "How's it hanging?"

Lyle, the head of the orderlies, nods. "Doctor Q."

"How many times, call me Harley, Lyle. Everyone does."

"…Alright. Harley. Do you know what's coming up next week?"

"Nope," I say, bending down to adjust the strap on my heel. "Enlighten me."

"Hmm. It's April 1st next week; April Fool's Day. Joker always throws something big every year, and I don't want to end up with my head on a spike. You'll have a word with him today, won't you? Make sure he's not planning anything crazy?"

I hadn't even realised. Lyle is right; everyone's always on high alert when this time of year rolls around. Last year Jeremiah found crushed up glass in his tuna crunch sandwiches, and the year before that the food in the patient's cafeteria at lunch was laced with hallucinogens. That was a very messy afternoon for everyone involved.

"I'll talk to him," I reassure Lyle; the others breathe a sigh of relief in turn. I check my appearance in the reflection of the door's one-way window before I enter, puckering my blood red lipstick and buffing my hair at the roots.

"Whoa, mamma," Joker calls as I enter. "Someone call the fire brigade!"

"Behave!" I giggle, beaming in spite of myself. He arches his jaw expectantly, so that his face is turned from me; I lean across the table and plant a quick, discreet kiss on his cheek before taking my seat, checking over my shoulder that the door is properly shut. I take my seat and ask him how he's been.

"All the better for seeing you, hot stuff. You get more and more beautiful every time I see you, if that's even possible."

"Your making me blush," I smirk, tapping my nails against the table.

Our sessions have become little more than a front now. I'm still trying to help him, of course, but no actual therapy takes place within these four walls any longer. Not of the traditional kind, anyway. We talk and we exchange stories, we laugh together. Joker says it's the best part of the week for him, and I have to agree. I feel like myself when I'm in this room, with this man. It's become therapeutic for the both of us. The guards find it strange, but with Quincy's approval, their discomfort with the situation can go no further than the walls of Joker's unit.

"It's April Fool's Day next week," I remember to mention, after yet another of Joker's hilarious anecdotes of his glory days running wild through Gotham.

Joker grins. "Is it really? Ooh goody. Lose track of the time in a place like this. My favourite holiday, don't you know. The only one worth celebrating, if you ask me."

"…You're not planning anything crazy, are you, Mr. J?"

"Crazy? _Me?_ I'm insulted!" He chuckles. "No no no, I'll be on my best behaviour. Scout's honour. Not that I was ever a scout; not that I can remember, at least."

I pop a bubble. "You mean that?"

"Of course! Besides, what could I do, locked up here?"

I raise my eyebrows. "I think we both know you better than that. You gotta be on your best behaviour, the staff are freaking out."

"Oh, who cares about the staff," Joker says loudly, rolling his eyes. "What, have you been eavesdropping on the breakroom chatter? I've told you not to talk to any of those idiots."

"I don't," I say quickly, before he can become annoyed. "None of them say more than two words to me, anyway."

"They're all scared of you," Joker says, smirking. "As they should be."

I shake my head at the ridiculous notion. "They're not scared of me."

"Well, they're all scared of me, and being scared of you is a by-product of that now. Plus they think you're completely cracked for coming back here in the first place."

I frown, stretching my gum over my tongue. "Just promise me, Mr. J. No funny business on April Fools, okay?"

"I'm a comedian, Harley. Funny _is_ my business."

I give him the _'I'm-being-serious'_ face. He smirks, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, _alright._ How could I say no to that face? No laxatives in the mashed potatoes this year. Pinky promise."

I lock my finger with his own and give him a flash of teeth. "Thanks, Puddin'."

He doesn't break eye contact. It's one of those moment's where he's _really_ looking at me. It feels so good when he looks at me.

He juts his chin forwards, beckoning. "C'mere."

It's the invitation I've been craving. I lean out of my seat to close the space between us, pushing my hand gently through his hair as our lips meet, parted, eyes closed. I know that I'll face the same thoughts tonight as I lie in bed, that this is wrong, so _wrong,_ and yet I can't help myself. More than that, I'm not _trying_ to help myself. I love the feeling of his skin on mine, of a connection between the two of us. I can't remember the last time I felt this good.

I dare to open my eyes for a fraction of a second, to affirm something to myself; he does not close his eyes when we kiss. He stares at me with that same green-eyed intensity, even when we're breathing the same air. I bite down lightly on his lower lip as I pull away, but he isn't finished with me yet. He leans back in and parts my lips with his tongue; the touch of his substitute teeth against my own is peculiar, warm but grating.

He draws back, taking half of my gum pinched in his teeth; the pink strand stretches out between us, and Joker begins to sing through his teeth in a heavy Italian accent,

 _"'_ _Oh, this is the night, it's a beautiful night,  
And we call it bella note…'"_

I giggle at the reference, drawing my head back until the gum snaps; Joker winds the loose strand around his tongue and draws it into his mouth, grinning.

"Mmm, strawberry. My favourite."

"You're gross."

He winks and simultaneously blows me another kiss. I glance back over my shoulder, paranoid that one of the orderlies might have seen us through the glass. I hear Joker tapping his foot impatiently.

"Lighten up, doll face. No one's watching."

I take a tissue from my jacket and use it to dab my lipstick from his mouth.

"Even if they were, who cares? We've got the Warden in our pocket."

He knows I feel guilty about that. He tells me not to be so soft, that there's nothing to feel bad about; his family are fine, and will continue to be. Holding the threat of their safety over his head to keep our sessions risk-free makes me feel bad all the same.

Doesn't stop me from doing it, though.

"I wish you'd let me tell him about the guards beating on you," I say. Joker pulls a face, dismissing the notion.

"Oh, let them have their fun. I need a little excitement down here… it's my second favourite event of the week, next to these times with you... God, I wish I didn't have these things..." He moves his hands to and fro beneath the restraints. "Think how much more fun we could have."

I hope that wasn't a hint. Because, in spite of everything, I don't feel the same. I'm glad he hasn't asked me to have the guards stop chaining him up, because I don't think I could say no to him, and if I did say no, I know that he'd make me pay the price in other ways. Regardless of the way I feel for him, I'm not blind enough to overlook the fact that those simple restraints on his cold white hands are the only things which keep me the one in control. I still remember what those hands can do.

"They shouldn't touch you," I say, drawing the conversation back to its starting point. "If I told Sharpie he'd get rid of all four of them at the drop of a hat, no questions asked-"

"I said leave it," he barks. It's the tone he uses to let me know that a conversation is over, and I've learned better than to probe once it's used.

"I'm just trying to help," I offer with a sad smile. He tuts fondly, brushing his foot against my leg.

"I know, kitten. Always looking out for your old man."

When our session ends, it is, as usual, with a knock on the door from the orderlies, letting us know that it's time for Joker's exercise. When they lead him away, a subtle glance between the two of us says all we need to keep us going until next week's session.

"Have a fantastic April Fools day, Doctor Quinzel," Joker calls, slinking from the room with his usual ease. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That leaves things pretty open," I call back, and he laughs as he's lead away.

I head back to the main building to grab my things and sign out. As I'm heading out the door, Quincy appears and asks if I'll come in next week for April Fools just incase things do go haywire; he believes I'd be the best person to talk Joker down. I agree, wishing him a good night and heading home.

When I arrive I find a new handful of messages on the answering machine from my mum, and a couple of messages over social media from friends back in Blüdhaven. I reply half-heartedly to my old friends, but still can't bring myself to talk to my mom.

I arrive at work at eight AM on April Fools Day just encase Joker is in a particularly festive mood and decides to pull any tricks before the morning shift begins. I make my way to my desk in the shared office to sit and eat breakfast. The office is deserted at such an early hour, which I take as a mercy. I find my desk as I last left it, an armful of folders and a photograph of my friends and I on a rollercoaster in Star City, screaming out heads off with fear and joy. Then there's a file with a few notes on Joker stuffed inside, and sitting atop it, a slim black box with a piece of pink bubblegum stuck to its lid.

I've seen one like it before. When my mind settles on where, it throws a barage of images at me, acid-tinged memories of laughter and stabbing pains, racing heartbeats and a frenzied, topsy-turvy kiss. I take a seat at my desk, the thunder of my pulse the only sound.

I reach for the narrow box with clamy hands. The chewed gum gives off a faint stale strawberry scent, and I realise its significance.

 _Oh, Mr. J. What have you done?_

My heart is constricted in my throat as I remove the lid. A piece of paper lies beneath with a simple message written on it in a shaky hand I don't recognise;

 _Sorry, sweetie. I had my fingers crossed._

 _You know what to do._

 _Happy April Fools!_

 _-J x_

I remove the card with trembling fingers. Below lies a needle, filled to the brim with lime green antidote.

I stare at the needle filled with the remedy to Joker's toxin. A thousand scenarios play out in my mind, death and laughter in a dizzying swirl, until I settle on a beautiful, deluded scenario; it's April Fools Day, after all. And this year, the joke's on me. I repeat the phrase over and over as a mantra until I almost believe it, smile at the notion; this is the joke, me sitting paranoid at a desk believing that the world is about to end, wondering which of my colleagues or patients I'll have to watch choke to death on their own laughter. He wants me dizzy, deranged, so that tomorrow in our session he can laugh at my folly and squeeze my fingers in his own, throw me a wink and tell me, _'Gotcha!'_

I convince myself that there's no way he could have set up anything alone in that cell. The idea is ludicrous... but then again, how could this box have ended up on my desk in the first place, if he has no external communication? The longer I fester on that thought, the less I can convince myself that this is all a joke. If this life-saving needle can be here on my desk, then whose to say its antithesis can't be hidden somewhere, ready to strike? I put the lid back on the box along with the note and hide it away in my pocket, heading for the door with a new-found purpose.

I head over to Joker's unit to confront him. I'm met at the door by two orderlies I don't recognise. They tell me that Joker is being kept in isolation today, alone in a padded cell with nothing but a strait jacket for company, and that they are agency staff covering for two of Joker's orderlies who have taken _'ill'_. I try to reason with them, ensuring them that it is urgent. They don't know me, are disinterested in the significance of me being his therapist, and after a heated argument I decide to head to Quincy to have him overrule the orderlies, only to find that he is not in his office. When I ask at the reception desk where he is, Pearl tells me that he hasn't come into work today. He's unwell, apparently; it looks like there's a lot of that going around today. No one wants to be this year's April Fool.

I ask her to call his home number; she tries after some persuasion, but tells me that the call has gone straight to voicemail. She tries again, with no success. Frustrated, with the black box still heavy in my pocket, I find myself gravitating towards the patient's mess hall. It's not a place that should be calming to me, but there's something about the cafeteria which feels oddly like home. I'd much rather ponder my options here than surrounded by the other staff.

It's been a long while since I've been in this room; I used to relish the times here, where things would be more relaxed and only the non-violent patients would be present, or the more aggressive of them heavily sedated. It always felt like a break from the mania of the violent crowd; but that was before I met Joker.

Breakfast is being served, the patients coming in all in their greyish linens, slumped as they wait in line for oatmeal and pre-buttered toast, because God forbid any of them should touch a knife. I recognise their faces, the curves of their spines. I see Lucas, who I spent so much time with when I first took my position at Arkham; he was younger than I was back then. Now he looks a decade older than I do, even thinner than he was before, his dense curly hair having lost its shine. I remember the feel of his nervous, bony hands in my own. I look away, and pretend not to have noticed him.

I look around the crowd for a space where I might sit and think. The scene is a sea of grey, vaguely familiar faces; I name each of them in my head, or at least those whose names I can remember. Thomas Schiff, paranoid schizophrenic, the first patient I ever tended to. Warren White, who really shouldn't be in here and most of us are pretty sure plead insanity thinking that a stay here in Arkham would be favourable to a twenty-year sentence in Blackgate. I wonder if he's still thinking that now.

There's another face I recognise. In the sea of grey and white, his red hair sticks out like nun in a brothel. Part of me says I should stay away, but there's a smirking devil on my shoulder who can't help but lead my feet forwards to his table. As I sit down opposite him, the small man with the missing hand raises his head and frowns.

"Well, would you look who it is. Haven't seen you around here in a long time, Miss Q."

"Hmm. Not since you and your idiot bald friend hunted me down and tried to hand me over to the clown."

He scratches the back of his head uncomfortably, grimacing. "Poor old Hellsinger. So you're one of those women who holds a grudge, huh? Well, you couldn't have been that traumatized, because here you are, still at it."

I smile. "Here I am."

"Hmm. So what you after? Come to gloat?"

 _Yes,_ I think. Instead of saying it, I smile wider. He doesn't like that.

"Yeah, well you keep on grinning. Joker'll wipe that smile off your pretty face soon enough."

I narrow my eyes, but keep the smile. _Mister, you got no idea._

"I doubt that. What's your name?"

His own eyes narrow in turn. "Gagsworthy. They call me Gags."

A giggle escapes my lips. _"'Gags?'_ I bet Joker liked that, back when you were working for him."

"Yeah, he gave me the nickname in the first place. Thought it was funny." He raises his left arm, where the stump ends. "Thought this was funny, too. I was his _right hand man."_

"How'd you lose it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Do you always pay this much attention, Doc?"

I stare at the stump. There's an unease in my stomach.

"…And you stuck around, even after he did that?"

"Sure. A man don't need two hands. Trust me, compared to most of J's goons I got off lightly. Then again, ending up face-down in a river is considered getting off lightly when you roll with Joker. He's a good boss, though. Pay is good."

A new figure enters the cafeteria, and my internal clock flips from chronos to kairos. As Jeremiah Arkham lifts a plastic tray from the pile and sets it down before the woman dishing out breakfast, he becomes the only dash of colour in this room of greying white. I have not seen him since everything happened. I watch as he nods along at the offer of pre-buttered toast, watch his hands shake as he's passed a disposable cup of diluted blackcurrant fruit juice. I watch as he takes a seat on the other end of the cafeteria, and stares dully at his feet until the toast goes cold. When he finally picks up a piece and takes a bite, his eyes scan the room and fall on mine. There's a moment between nothingness and recognition, and the second he understands that it is me he is up on his feet, toast still in hand, crossing the cafeteria in spite of the orderlies' calls for him to sit back down. He plunges down into the seat opposite mine, dropping the toast down onto the table.

"Well, look who's come to join us," Gags muses, his voice droll. "The quackiest quack in this place."

"Harleen," Jeremiah says, jittery, his hands reaching across for mine. "It's so good to see you, I'd heard you were back but no one would tell me anything!"

"Aww, ain't that just a picture," Gags says, reaching out to swipe a slice of Jeremiah's toast. When he speaks again, he sprays a mouthful of crumbs. "What a sweet reunion. Someone grab the camera."

One of the orderlies is heading our way to retrieve Jeremiah; I wave him off, assuring him that everything is okay. Jerry shifts his tray a little closer to himself uncomfortably, trying not to acknowledge Gagsworthy's presence. His hands are shaking, with excitement or withdrawal.

"Today, of all days! You've spoken with the clown, haven't you? Made sure he isn't going to do anything?"

"Of course," I lie. _I tried, I really tried. "_ Everything's under control."

Gags chokes on toast and laughter, guffawing. "Under control? I've seen way more years in this place that you, Goldilocks. Nothing's under control on April 1st in Arkham, not for the last ten years. Now that Joker's not under this roof with the rest of us, me and the rest of the boys were ready to pull a real great stunt in his honour. See how they've made us all sit separate today, knew it was coming. But it don't matter. J will have something on the go. Rest of us can just sit back and wait for the party."

"This year there won't be any party," I stay sternly. The box presses heavily against my thigh, reminding me that my words are a falacy _._

"Yeah, well I won't pop the balloons and take down the bunting just yet," Gagsworthy grunts, "there's a lot of time between now and midnight. Doesn't matter if you've got J locked up over there all on his jack jones, he'll find a way. He never fails to disappoint his adoring crowd."

"Could you give us a minute, Mr. Gagsworthy?" Jeremiah asks.

"Hey, you're the ones who sat down at _my_ table. Go find your own."

"You can have the rest of my breakfast if you leave us in peace."

"Sold, to the man in the straight jacket," Gagsworthy jokes, taking Jeremiah's tray in his hand swiftly and scuttling away to another corner. Once we are alone, Jeremiah asks me a difficult question.

"All this time. Why haven't you come to see me?" he asks.

"I just… it hurts too much, you know? What we went through, what… what we did. And you…"

"I understand," He says sympathetically. "Seeing me like this. I know what I am. Do you blame me for any of it?"

"God no," I say, and it's the honest truth.

"You should," he says. "I should never have agreed to include you in his therapy. I don't sleep, Harleen. Every night I think about it. Entertaining his fantasies, giving him what he wanted. If I hadn't written Leeland off, none of this would ever have happened. She's never have done what she did to my Corrine, to Hattie…"

"Hey," I say, resting a hand atop his own as emotion plays thick in his voice. "You were just trying to help your patient. Neither of us could ever have known-"

"No, it was _selfish,_ Harleen. Selfish. I wanted to get into his head, more than anything. I was so sucked up in understanding him, in making any sort of breakthrough that I disregarded everything else."

"We both did," I say sadly. _We were both fools._ "We looked at him as a puzzle to be solved. He's anything but."

Jeremiah sighs. "During the breakout, when he had me holed up with the other hostages, he took me outside and told me he had answers about the murders. Told me I could walk away, or stick around and find out the truth. I chose to stay."

If he had left, he wouldn't be a murderer, wouldn't be an inmate in his own institution.

"Would you go back and change it?" I ask uneasily.

"I don't know," he says after a long while. "I just don't know. God, Harleen. Why did you come back here? You were out of this place, finally. Away from this madness, away from us all."

I know the answer to the question. The answer is Joker.

"Someone has to do the job," I say, as though it even feels like work anymore, as if I don't live for every second I spend locked in that room with that madman. "I know him. He started a spree of killing anyone who put forward for the job. I was the only solution."

"You need to watch out for yourself, Harleen," Jeremiah implores, holding my hand in both of his own. "God knows we both know what he's capable of. Protect yourself, especially today of all days. You don't want to end up as the punchline to another one of his jokes."

I nod, thinking of the green liquid screaming from my pocket, begging to be let loose on me.

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

With no actual duties today, no one blinks an eye when I take myself out of the Asylum and to the little cafe I used to work in just across the Iron Sisters' bridge. I ignore a group of builders who wolf whistle and call after me as I go, swallowing back my annoyance and walking more quickly. Part of me prays that if anything is going to happen, it will happen now, so that by the time I return it will all be over and done with.

Any sane person would have called the cops the moment they saw the box on their desk, but things are so much more complicated than that now. I don't know why I haven't told anyone about the needle, about the very real threat it implies. I don't know why I do most things nowadays. Every moral part of my being screams for me to grab my cell phone and dial 911, but my hand won't reach for the device, my fingers won't mash the buttons. I just sit still at one of the tables in the cafe, frozen still, trying to sort out the muddle that is my mind.

"You ordering anything, honey?" my old boss calls to me; I nod quickly, snapped out of my daze, ask her for a hot cocoa. _Milk?_ No, thanks. _Sugar?_ Three spoons. _Jesus, honey, you'll be bouncing off the walls._

"Yeah, well it's one of those kinda days."

She sets the drink down in front of me. I thank her and give her a handful of change, not even bothering to count it out. She sifts through it counting out the right amount, and I tell her to keep the excess, just wanting to be left alone.

"You sure you're okay, Harley?"

"Yeah," I say, squeesing her hand as she sits down opposite me. "Just a rough day at the Asylum, you know?"

"I'm glad I don't. You know you're welcome back here any time, right? I'd have you back here in a heartbeat."

"I know," I smile. She squeezes me tightly then goes back to the counter to serve one of the builders who's just walked in. I sink into my coco and, beneath the table, draw the black box from my pocket. I remove the lid, setting the note aside, and stare at the emerald liquid bubbling inside the needle.

 _You promised me, Mr. J. No funny business._ With that wicked smile and a couple of kisses, he had me believing him. But like he said; funny _is_ his business. Did I really think my asking would be enough for him to break a now decade-old tradition of causing havoc on his favourite day of the year? Ten years in Arkham. As if he was ever going to resist celebrating. It's almost funny. Joke's on me, I guess.

By the time my decision is made, my cocoa is luke-warm and the coffee house is filling up with people on their lunch breaks. I swallow back the chilling and head outside, my cell phone in my hand and the needle back in my pocket. I stand in the entrance way of an alley for some privacy and quiet away from the bustling street traffic. I punch the numbers in;

 _9_

It's the right thing to do.

 _1_

I'm the only one who can prevent this.

 _1_

People could _die._

I exhale loudly, nerves bubbling up inside me. The call goes through and the phone begins to ring. I pull it away from my ear and stare at the screen for a moment.

 _Would you like to cancel this call?_

I press _yes._ Then I place the phone face-down on the dumpster beside me and retrieve the black box from my pocket. I glance over the note again, read Joker's words; y _ou know what to do._

I pull the needle free, letting the note drift to the ground, and lean back against the alley wall. I pull the sterile cap from the needle's end and drive the shaft under my skin, biting my tongue at the pain, squeezing the dispenser down and allowing the glistening green liquid to invade my bloodstream.

 _Whatever you say,_ Mr. _J._


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Daydream

**Chapter Fifteen:**

 **Daydream**

I am lost. I've been lost for as long as I can remember, wading through a sea of thick green fog. I can see nothing but my two hands in front of me, but I can hear a dull creaking and the grind of machinery. A sense of fear is tight in my chest, pressing me forwards through the never-ending sea of green. I would yell for help, but I'm too scared of what might answer the call.

Another sound adds itself to the sorrowful chorus; a slow, warped carnival ditty, tinkering chimes and a stuttering harpsichord. I head towards the sound with cautious steps.

The louder and more fervent the tune becomes, the easier it is to see ahead of me; the smoke draws back to a lime haze, revealing a sunken carnival all around me. The place is derelict, like a cadaver picked clean for carrion; tall metal bars support abandoned roller-coasters, like huge empty rib cages. Their sun-bleached cars sit rusting away, like teeth from the mouth of a giant. A colourless carousel creaks on its axis, turning steadily, the faces of its horses obscured, blank, as though their paintwork is unfinished. Above a stand promising candyfloss and other delights, a single red balloon floats, the rest of the bunch it is tied to shriveled away into nothing.

I stare at the bags of candyfloss pegged across the sloped roof of the booth. They sway lightly in the warm breeze, their bags crinkling, the soft pink clouds inside billowing left and right. I approach cautiously, the taste of sugar already on my tongue. I reach up on tippy toes to unpeg one of the bags, and as I do a hand from inside the booth snatches hold of my wrist.

"A-a-ah," its owner teases. "We shouldn't take things we can't pay for, missy."

"I can pay," I say, reaching down for my purse. I ask how much.

"It's all on the sign. You should really learn to read the small print before you go jumping into things."

I look up at the sign and find that the whole booth has changed. The candy-floss has vanished from the low ceiling, and the brown wooden panels have changed to a musty candy-pink. The sign above no longer promises confectionery delights; it now reads, _Kissing Booth, $5._

"Five dollars is a lot of money for a kiss," I remark.

"Depends who you're kissing," the booth owner says. His voice has changed to a silkier, smarmy tone. I look up at him for the first time.

His hair is jet black, his skin white as ash. A black smile is painted across his lips, and he wears checkered pants with a white shirt and black suspenders. There is not a speck of colour on him. I feel as though I know him- _he looks so familiar-_ but I can't place from where.

"So what'dya say, doll-face? Ten dollars to kiss these gorgeous lips. Pretty good deal, if you ask me."

I'm hesitant. "You said five dollars."

"No," the mime corrects me, "the _sign_ said five dollars. Signs are inanimate objects, don't listen to signs. These are difficult times we're living in, we have a flexible pricing policy."

"But you said..."

I'm confused, not just by his contradictions but by everything here. The tinkering music is getting louder.

"You talk alot for a mime," I note, looking over my shoulder to see if I can spot its source. I take ten dollars from my purse and hand it over. He pockets it and holds his hand out again, that magnetic smile blazing.

"Tell you what, why not just hand it all over?"

I pull my hand back, holding the purse closer to my chest.

"That doesn't sound like such a good idea."

"Nonsense! I'll put it all to good use. Pinky promise."

"...I don't think so."

"Fine," he says, pouting and reaching up to pull down the shutter. "No kiss for you, then."

"No!" I say, staying the shutter with my hand; he lifts it again, frowning. Defeated, I thrust the purse out to him. I want that kiss. I'm not even sure why I want it, but I want it more than anything. The mime smirks, taking the purse and pocketing it. He grabs me by the front of my dress and pulls me in sharply, and when our lips come together the world implodes.

I'm looking up at the stars. There is a green haze still, but it's so fine it's barely noticeable. More red balloons float through the haze. In the corner of my vision, I see the peaks of a cluster of high, swirling black-and-white circus tents. Again I hear the music, that unmistakable circus sound, and realise that I'm finally here, at the source. The sound is coming from inside the tents; I push myself to my feet and approach the entrance to the largest, where a tall, lithe figure leans against one of the flimsy walls in the darkness. As I approach, he extends a warm hand and welcomes me.

I understand then that this is the Ringmaster. He wears a bejewelled rhinestone coat of red, the crystals shimmering like a pool of blood wherever light hits them. He has on a matching top hat, worn so low that it covers his eyes, so that it seems that his whole face is nothing but a smile. He beckons me inside and takes my hand, leading me through the dark circus. His hand is wrapped around my twist. I don't think I could pull away if I tried.

Dark though it may be, the tents are a whirlwind of colour, nothing like the dull grey of the outside world. I'm shown each crook and crevice of the dazzling circus, high trapeze acts and jugglers, a knife-thrower and a dancing bear. There is no audience save the Ringmaster and myself, the two of us sharing popcorn as we laugh at the clowns and gaze in wonder at the silk-dancers. Suddenly all of the acts are performing at once, so that it becomes too much to take in, my eyes flitting from one act to the next. I ask if we can move on, find something else to see.

"What else is there?" The Ringmaster asks in his familiar voice. "This is the main act. This is why people come to the circus in the first place."

"Maybe you could show me what goes on behind the curtain?" I ask. He laughs darkly, and leads the way.

Darkness. That's what lies behind the red velvet drapes; a corridor of metal cages, large and small, mostly empty but some occupied; the freak show acts, I realize. A man with only one ear, sharing a cage with a smaller man who cannot speak. A woman with broken bones and half a skull, twitching on the hay-covered floor of her own cage. A dead woman and a dead child, caged in with a man who is screaming at the bars, begging for release. His screaming is too much, and I turn to leave.

The Ringmaster grabs my wrist. "Where are you going?"

"I don't want to look anymore," I say, pulling away. "I want to leave."

He laughs, and the sound is so familiar it sends a jolt through my spine. I realise then who he is.

"You can't just leave," the Ringmaster tells me, his all-consuming grin bared. "Nobody just _leaves."_

"But I don't want to stay here," I implore him as he pulls on my wrists, still grinning, dragging me past the other cages, my feet scrabbling across the floor. He laughs louder, which sets the others in the cages moaning in distress. I pull away until my wrists bruise, kicking out at him but to no avail. At the back of the tent, in the darkest corner, he opens the door of an empty cage and throws me inside.

"You're mine now," says a whisper on the air, and as the cage door slams everything turns black, and the only thing louder than the ringing in my ears is the Ringmaster's laughter.

~oOo~

I snap awake, banging my head against the wall of the alleyway. My neck aches from the uncomfortable position I've fallen into; as soon as the pain eases off, I become aware of someone standing over me, shaking my arm. It's the builder from the cafe.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

"Get off me," I say quickly, and find my way to my feet. Just a nightmare. Most of it will be forgotten in a few seconds, wrought into unconscious by the strange mixture I've just injected. Was it a dream, or a hallucination? I cannot know. Either way, it felt real. That familiar rush has hit me again, the mix of sweet elation and a racing heartbeat. The serum itches through my veins. I lean back against the alley wall, allowing the feeling to wash over me, eyes closed as I wait for my heart to settle back into its regular beat. The construction guy is talking to me, but I'm not hearing a word he says.

I remember the first time I took a hit of the stuff, the dizzying madness that had followed. Could this be something different, or just something stronger? The question is frightening. I feel like I'm out of my body, and yet very aware of it at the same time. I think of all those hours spent wondering if this concoction really had made any changes to me, or if my new-found freedom alone had gifted me with less inhibitions and more confidence in myself. I guess we'll find out soon enough.

The builder is trying to get my attention again.

"...Should I call an ambulance...?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Just leave me alone, thanks."

He wanders off, looking confused.

I toss the gum-covered box, the needle and the note deep into one of the dumpsters so that it has no chance of being found. I think what that means; I'm covering my tracks. It means I'm resigned to letting whatever Joker has planned happen, and by mere association, doesn't that make me an accomplice?

 _This is not something that normal people do,_ I think. _When did I stop being 'normal people?'_

I'm paralysed by the thought for a long time. When I stop crying, I wipe the ruined mascara from beneath my eyes and start my journey back to the Asylum. I feel more alive than I have since that day at the Asylum when everything began to change. I'm more aware of everything, somewhat disoriented, wired. I pass by the builders again and as I do, a man old enough to be my father passes a comment about climbing the ladder in my tights. Another joins in, calling out to ask if my legs go all the way up.

"Bite me, jackass!" I yell back, a biting roar. After a moment of surprise at my retaliation couple of the men make low _oooh_ sounds, taunting me.

"That one's crazy," one of the workmen mutters. I spin on my heel, turning back to the crowd, and jab a finger in his direction.

"You wanna come over here and say that to me, asshole?! Last time I saw a face like yours I had to pay admission. You might wanna get back to your cage, the zoo closes early on Thursdays!"

Stunned, the man does not respond.

"Yeah, thought so. Go screw yourselves." I give the group a single-fingered salute and march away, muttering a tirade of colourful insults. None of them dare say another word to me.

When I reach the Asylum, lunch hour has just begun. Every face I pass in the corridor reads victim, so I simply take to keeping my eyes on the floor. I grab my lunch from my locker and make my way to the smaller of the two staff rooms, designated for the doctors, head nurses and anyone with a desk job. I wonder which of the crowd will most regret coming into work by the end of the day.

It looks as though everyone's paranoid as to what Joker might pull; people make half-hearted jokes about the events of previous years, reassure themselves that no one has been killed on April Fools in the last five years. Not everyone is convinced that this means things will go so smoothly this year, though. With the antidote to Joker's poison swimming through my bloodstream, I know that their worries are well placed.

I sit quietly at one of the coffee tables, paperwork and pen in hand, to seem as though I'm working and provide an excuse for sitting alone at lunchtime. My pasta sits on the arm of the chair, and I worry over every bite before swallowing it down, my eyes darting across the room every time someone steps through the door or laughs a little too loudly.

"Espresso machine is bust again," one of the new nurses complains loudly, filling the kettle with water and searching the overhead cupboards for some of the instant stuff. She pulls out a half-empty tub with a frown.

"Decaf," she says sourly, "just my luck. God, this place is such a shit show. Nothing ever works."

"You should have seen the place before Sharp was the Warden," our resident accountant calls. "I've seen barnyards with better working conditions. Gotta admit that Jeremiah was a better boss, though."

"Nah, screw Arkham," Tony, another nurse, retorts. He leans back against the kitchen counter and yawns. "I never liked him. Sharp might be an asshole, but at least he's not a particularly _smart_ asshole. Nothing slipped past Jeremiah."

"Well, something clearly did, or else he wouldn't have ended up in here on a permanent basis."

The coffee-deprived nurse picks at her nails impatiently as she waits for the kettle to come to a boil. Once she's stirred the instant coffee into the hot water, she looks about for a seat, and finds that the only one available is beside me.

"Uh… alright if I sit here, Miss Quinzel?"

"Sure thing," I smile. I don't think she knows my first name. The nurse imitates the gesture, a disoriented doppelganger of a grin. I'm used to the strange looks and whispers by now; _why the hell did she come back here, to him? Has she always talked like that? Does she actually do_ any _work around here?_

I draw my paperwork closer to myself to hide the fact that I'm doodling in the margins, desperately trying to distract myself. I stab my fork back into my pasta and take another bite.

One of Joker's orderlies comes in then, Danny, the youngest of the four who can never quite look me in the eye. He has a paper coffee cup in hand. It's odd to see one of the orderlies in our staff lounge, and he feels a need to address the reason for his presence.

"Our coffee machine's out of order," he says, and there's a resounding sigh amongst the staff; another of the nurses, Tony, explains that ours is out of action too, and the young orderly offers to take a look at it. I watch him carefully, a strange feeling festering inside me.

"Nah, that thing's gone to meet its maker," he says after five minutes of tinkering. His eyes skim over mine momentarily before he heads for the door. "I'll run down to the janitor's office and tell him to check it out."

"Good man," Tony says as he leaves, closing the door after him. He takes a bite of his sandwich and fingers the espresso machine, pressing a few buttons in the hopes that something will kick in.

Uneasily, I abandon my pasta and my paperwork and head for the door, with the aim of confronting the fidgety young orderly. I move quickly so that he can't get away before we have the chance to speak. When my hand reaches for the doorknob, I find that It won't move. I look through the small glass window to see the orderly staring back at me, wide-eyed, his hands working away at the handle the other side; I tug at it again as the orderly hurries away, to find that the knob will till not move. He has locked the door.

"What the hell," I mouth at him. He shakes his head, and runs.

The door is locked. There is no way out. A sense of foreboding sinks into me, and I turn back to the room filled with my colleagues.

Tony continues fiddling with the espresso machine. He is down on his knees with a hand up inside the machine, using the other hand to pull the various toggles. As he pulls at the lever designed to release the hot water, there is a strange hissing sound.

"That doesn't sound good," he says. Suddenly, the sound picks up, causing Tony to jump out of his skin.

"Christ be, what the hell-?!"

 _BANG!_

My heart jumps into my throat as the espresso machine explodes with green gas, bursting in Tony's face and throwing him to the floor; there's a shriek of surprise and immediately everyone is up on their feet, brimming with panic as the lime gas spreads rapidly throughout the staff room; the accountant is the first with the sense to move, bolting for the door and pushing me aside, wrestling with its handle. He begins cursing aloud as the door refuses to give. He kicks out at the door, and as more staff members move forwards to help, I stand out of the way. The whole thing plays out with the strange feeling that it's all a dream, or a nightmare. None of it feels real. Someone smashes the small pane of glass in the door, an attempt to release the gas, but the room is flooded with the dense toxin. The door refuses to give, and though the people at the door call out for help, others scrambling for their mobile phones, no one comes.

From the floor, Tony clutches at his throat, his face sliced by debris from the espresso machine, and begins to laugh.

If any of the staff were unsure what was happening, they know for certain now. It's a matter of seconds before the laughter becomes infectious, mingled with the screams, and the half dozen staff members are following suit in the morbid dance. There's an itching in my throat as the toxin fills my lungs, but I do not cough and splutter as the others do.

I close my eyes as the rest of the scene plays out. I don't need to hear the end of this story; I've lived it too many times before, in reality and my nightmares. When the shrieking and coughing and that incessant, screaming laughter patters out, I open them again to find a sight I've become far too familiar with; dead, smiling faces, rictus grins, corpses that were colleagues.

I realise then that I have not moved.

Within seconds there is a barrage of sound as staff members flood in alerted to the commotion; the first to arrive is Lyle Bolton. His face fills the shattered window pane, looking in on the scene, staring around at the bodies and the carnage; I remain still, shaking, staring back at the crowd.

"Holy shit," Lyle breathes, taking a step back. "Someone call the police."

The rest of that day is as nightmarish as one would expect; police, ambulances, arrests and interviews. My own interrogation is done on-sight, along with that of anyone else who is in contact with Joker, including Lyle and the two agency staff. Quincy and Joker' other two absent orderlies, I've no doubt, will already be at the station giving his own statement.

The interview is torturous. have to explain that I'm immune to the toxin as I was given the antidote during the breakout, which they check against their records, putting them at ease a little. This is not entirely true, of course, but there's no need for them to know that. I tell them of the young orderly, how I saw him lock the door; half an hour after my interview ends, news comes that the young orderly has confessed. He admitted to planting the smoke bomb, on the promise of a $40,000 reward from Joker. When asked how he thought he could ever get away with it, he says that he had no plans to. I wonder what Joker could have on him, to make him throw away his life like that. What was that money going towards- hospital bills for a sick relative, perhaps? I can't think of any other reason why someone would do such a thing. Regardless of the reason, none of it matters; the cops will track down that money and confiscate it as proceeds of crime. He does not mention planting the antidote on my desk, which I assume comes as a special order from the clown himself.

I ask to sit in on Joker's interrogation, which is denied. Instead a doctor from Blackgate is brought over to be by his side during the recorded interview. I stay at Arkham while it goes on. In the evening one of the officers lets me know that Joker and the orderly's stories match up perfectly. She tells me that I can go home, de-stress, have a few days away from work to come to terms with it all. She offers to arrange me a lift home, which I decline. They'll be in touch.

Rain is pouring down on the city as I leave the asylum's doors. I button my coat up to the collar and let the rain beat against my face in icy-cold lashes. At the asylum's gates, illuminated by the red-and-blue whirring lights, a gathering of flowers and cards have already begun to manifest, drowning in puddles. I stand and stare at them for a long while. I think of families, of friends. Remember that the people I worked with were people, no matter how they might have liked to pretend that I wasn't. I think of children without parents, husbands without wives. I pretend its not my fault, that I couldn't have prevented any of this. When I turn away and push through the crowds of local paparazzi who have already swarmed, not saying a word, I allow them to believe that the streaks of water smothering my face are nothing more than more lashings of rain.

When I finally arrive home I'm dead to the world before I even get my key in the door. I'm starving hungry, but too sick and exhausted to eat. Without the energy even to escalate the stairs, I crumble against the couch and sink into its cushions, closing my eyes and drifting into a sluggish, disturbed sleep, preparing for the nightmares I know I deserve.


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Distance

**Chapter Sixteen:**

 **Distance**

The ringing of my phone wakes me up. It's Mum. I can't bring myself to answer it, in spite of the eight missed calls and all the voicemails.

I know I won't be sleeping again tonight, so instead I haul myself upstairs and pull out the scrapbook I've kept since my early teens from under my bed. Little things that meant so much to me, cinema tickets and birthday cards and event wristbands, flying-colours school reports and, of course, dozens of photographs. I glance through pictures of me and my friends, but it's those of my family that I can hardly look away from. I brush my fingers over a photograph of my cousins and I in a blow-up swimming pool in our Grandma's back garden when we were small, all with terrible haircuts and rosy, sun-burned cheeks. We were inseparable at that age, but I never see any of them anymore, except for at weddings and funerals. I find a picture of Mom, Dad and I on vacation, our heads poking through a comical cut-out at a beach, our borrowed bodies distorted and mis-matched; Dad a bikini babe, mom a chubby man holding a severely melting ice cream, and me a poodle trying to a avoid its drip.

I stare at it for a long while before grabbing my cell phone and scrolling through my contacts. Composing myself, I take the leap and call my Mom. The phone rings, once, twice, three times. On the eighth ring it goes through.

"Hello, it's Sharon-"

"Mom, it's Harleen-"

"I can't get to the phone right now, but if you'd like to leave a message-"

Sorrow punches me in the chest. I hang up the phone, foiled by the pre-recorded voice message. I hold my head in my hands, but a moment later, the phone begins to vibrate. I see Mom's picture pop up on the screen and scramble to answer it.

"Hi, Mom."

"Harleen?! Oh God, sweetie, why haven't you been answering my calls, I've been leaving messages left right and centre! It's been such a long time, I've been worried about you, and then all that at the Asylum, it was all over the news you know, I'm just so glad you're out of that place, I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep until I heard your voice, it's so much better now that you're at the coffee shop-"

Hearing her voice is enough to make me tear up. I take deep breaths, not knowing what to say. She hears my husked breathing on the other line and stops talking.

"What's wrong, honey?"

I clear my throat, trying to find the words to begin. I stutter over several, until I settle on a sentence.

"You know when you met Dad? You knew he wasn't the greatest guy in the world when you got with him, right?"

She seems confused by the tone of the conversation.

"...Everyone knew what your dad was like, Harls. He was running in the wrong circles long before we met. He had a... reputation. Everyone told me to steer clear of him, even his own mother, though your Gran never liked me much, anyway."

"…So why did you marry him?"

Her voice is sad, forlorn, but tinged with a warm nostalgia. "What can I say? He was handsome, charming. Smart, in his own way. Most of all, he made me laugh."

My eyes fill with tears at that.

"…And I knew that underneath all the crap on the surface, there was a man I loved very, very much, and who loved me just the same. And honey, you know we still feel the same way. Your father may be rough around the edges, and I know he's got a temper like a hot poker, but he's a good man. He wants to talk to you, he won't admit it but I know he wants you to come back home, he's kept your bedroom just the same-"

"It's not about Dad," I interrupt, my voice hollow. Tears spill hot down my face. Mom pauses.

"…Then what is it, Harleen? You can tell me."

I exhale sharply. Try and fail to stop my voice from cracking.

"I… I've met a bad guy, Mom."

There's a long silence.

"Okay," she says shakily. I Know that she's already panicking, because she beings to ramble. "Okay. I'm surprised, you've never been big on dating, but okay. That's okay." I can tell that she's trying to keep herself calm, saying anything to prevent a silence. She takes a moment to compose herself. "Well, it's not okay, not that he's a bad guy, but it's okay that you're interested and you're looking for someone… is it that boy, the handsome one, from your Graduation?"

"No."

"Okay. Where did you meet him?"

"Through work," I choke.

"Okay, and he's, what, is he… has he been abusive towards you?"

I can't respond.

"Oh, my God," she says. I can hear her crying now, but can't comfort her through my own tears.

"Come home, baby," my mother pleads. "Come back to Blüdhaven, your father will understand, he won't kick you out again, even if he tried I wouldn't let him, I should never have let him-"

"I can't," I say, "I can't. It's so much more complicated… I can't explain."

"Harleen," she says, calmer now. "You know you can tell me anything."

 _Not this,_ I think. _You wouldn't understand. No one would ever understand._

I force myself to say the words out loud, to admit the truth to myself.

"I… I think I'm in love with him, Ma."

I know that it's true. I have known it for the last few of months, but saying the words aloud feels like such a relief. The tears begin to stream again. Mom doesn't quite know what to say.

"Oh, baby… we can sort this out. Get this guy out of your life, or… or sort out whatever's wrong between the pair of you, okay?"

 _If only you knew, Mom. I wish I could tell you. It's so much worse than you think. So, so much worse._

"I'm coming to yours as soon as I can, understand? I'm at your Aunt Kara's until Saturday morning, but I'll be at your appartment first thing-"

"You don't have to do that," I say weakly, though I want nothing more than to curl up in her arms, melt into her bones and never leave her again.

"Yes I do," she says weakly. "Oh, sweetie. My little girl. I'm your mother. Of course I do."

After talking to Mom, I find that I sleep much more easily. I call up the Asylum the next morning, just to confirm that I won't be coming in. It takes me three tries to get through. The person working at the reception desk is not Pearl; he tells me that hardly anyone is coming in today. Most of the staff are agency. I'm not surprised, and try my hardest to shake away the renewed sense of guilt.

I spend the rest of the day curled up with a blanket on the couch, binge-watching the cartoons I loved as a kid and eating half my weight in confectionary. It doesn't make me feel much better, though, but I'll take distraction over dwelling on the events of yesterday, and the topsy-turvy turn my life has taken in the last few months.

There is a knock at the door around eight thirty. This puts me instantly on edge. That's another symptom of the antidote, if it has had some sort of effect on me; paranoia. I've brought a baseball bat which I keep in the umbrella basket by the door, even though I've not played the sport since high school and hated it even back then. I eat a sliced apple before bed every night, just so that I have an excuse to sleep with a kitchen knife on my bedside table if I ever have need to use it and the cops question why I had a weapon so readily. I've started carrying nail scissors when I carry pepper spray and the self-defence classes have worked a treat. You need to be prepared, living in a place like Gotham.

I try to decipher who might be calling at this sort of hour, and the only face I can settle on is Nightwing. He's the only person except for Mom and the mailman who has come to visit me since I moved back to the Narrows; I'm sure the Batman will be all over the incident at the asylum, after all, and they'll want to know about my involvement. I go to the door on the second knock, my eyes going to the baseball bat in the umbrella stand. I open the door a crack, and see not Nightwing, but another familiar face.

 _Dad._

He pushes at the door, opening it fully without my consent, and steps immediately over the threshold. His face is like thunder.

"Daddy-?"

No introductions. He charges in, practically backing me up against the wall, and growls in my face.

I hate him like this. He has a temper like wildfire. It's the reason I spent so much time alone in my room as a child, trying to block out the screaming arguments between him and my mother downstairs.

"Your Mom told me what's going on," he growls. No _'how are you,'_ no _'I've missed you, honey.'_

"I went to pick you up from work so we could sort this out, but you weren't there. The boss at the coffee shop told me that you're back at Arkham!"

"Dad, listen-"

"No, _you_ listen. You're back at that shit hole, after everything that happened?! Are you out of your mind? And now it's all over the news, a dozen staff members dead yesterday! And now there's some guy in the mix, too?! Some guy from work, from that _nuthouse,_ who's been beating the shit out of you?!"

"It's not like that-"

"According to your mother it is. Who is this guy, Harleen? One of the orderlies? One of those stuck-up Doctor pricks? I'll break his fucking neck."

I can't find the words to explain. Even if I could, I don't want to tell him.

"You ain't gonna tell me? Fine. I'll head up Arkham right now, see if I can't find out who this prick is-"

"Don't be ridiculous!" I call. "Calm down, Dad. I'm okay."

He doesn't do calm very well. He slams the door behind himself so that the two of us are standing in the darkness. My hand hovers near the baseball bat.

"I can't believe you've gone back to that place," he says. "without even telling me or your mother! She's been worried sick!"

"How could I tell you when you've been refusing to talk to me?!" I bark, "you're the one who kicked _me_ out, remember?!"

"Don't you blame me for this! You're the one who started all that shit, bringing up the past, going off the rails-!"

"I won't talk to you when you're like this," I interrupt him, trying to keep a level-head. He is far past level-headedness, snarling like a pitbull.

"Yes you fucking will. You go back to the place that has nearly got you killed, _twice,_ then pick up some lowlife and let him beat the crap out of you?! What's wrong with you, Harleen?"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" I yell, pushing him back as he continues to advance on me, still yelling. I back up into the tiny kitchen, standing behind the counter to put a barrier between the two of us. "You have no idea what's going on in my life! No idea what I've had to deal with, what I've been through in the last three years!"

"Well, we all know whose fault that is!"

I'm shocked. "Don't you dare blame me-!"

"Not _you!"_ he barks, "the clown! Your gold-star patient! God, just tell me you're not dealing with him any longer, that he's in isolation where he belongs."

I don't respond. He reads all he needs from that, and looks genuinely disappointed, though it barely flickers through his anger.

"You have to be kidding me," he yells. "Are you kidding me?! As if it ain't bad enough you've got one asshole beating on you, you crawl back to that bastard, too?! When are you gonna learn that you can't help that mad man, Harleen?!"

"You don't understand!" I say, not quite breaking the threshold of tears.

"Your mom says you're in love with this guy, this boyfriend. You're smarter than that, you're a therapist, for God's sake! You think just because you _'love_ ' him you can change him?! You think your psycho mumbo-jumbo will work on him, stop him being a woman-beating asshole?! Just take a look at your clown, see how well it's worked on him!"

I stare at him. A silence builds between us. He makes the connection, and his face falls in disbelief.

"No," he says.

I begin to cry.

Something takes over him then. I've seen him angry, I've seen him really angry, but this is completely alien. Everything in him that is man falls away, and he becomes nothing but white-hot, insatiable rage. Demonic. He charges at me, grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me as I cry, screaming in my face. I can barely even register the words, a knot of cursing and denials and the words _clown, crazy, insane._

"You are _not_ in love with that fucking freak! He tried to _kill you!_ He murdered all those people! Are you listening to me?! What's the matter with you?! What's happening to you, Harleen?!"

"Get off me!" I scream, but he has no room to listen to me. He continues roaring in my face, spraying spittle across my cheeks, his eyes so fierce I can't look at him. My hand reaches for the kitchen knife before I even recognise what I'm doing.

I shove him, hard, screaming as I do; it's enough to break a fraction of distance between us, and I slash at the air in warning, holding the weapon out at arms length. My dad backs off, stunned, staring at the blade and at me.

"Stay away from me," I say, my voice trembling. "Don't come near me."

All the rage has melted away. Shock and hurt enflame his face. He holds out his hands hopelessly and says my name.

"Get out!" I demand, shaking all over with upset and rage.

"Harleen-"

"Get out, Daddy!" I plead, gripping the knife with strong fingers. Every inch of my body is trembling, my vision blinded by tears. _"Please."_

"Harls, I... I'm sorry-"

 _"Go!"_

He relents. Without a word, he backs out of the kitchen and through the hallway. I hear the door latch unhinge; his footsteps pause in the hall for a long while before finally receding, the door closing shut behind them.

I hold the knife out steadily until he is gone. Once he has left, I throw the blade in the trash can and crumple against the laminate flooring, silencing sobs in the crook of my elbow, eyes wide in horror at what I have become.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Guardian

**Chapter Seventeen:**

 **Guardian**

There are fourteen missed calls from my mom on my mobile when I turn it back on on Wednesday morning, after four days of leaving it turned off. There are another thirteen messages on my home phone, none of which I have listened to, and she has been on my doorstep twice, calling through the letterbox that it's okay, we can fix this. But things are not okay.

I've spent the past four days doing absolutely nothing, except for sitting vapidly watching television. I haven't left the house since I pulled a knife on my father, or slept for more than four hours straight without waking from my nightmares.

I come to the realisation that I do not like myself. Since that hellish April Fools day I have been completely hollow. That's something I've never really experienced before. I've always been pretty content with who I am, even more so after the first jolt of the antidote. And that is, I think, because I've always been a good person. Haven't I? Never confrontational where it wasn't necessary. Only trying to help, not harm; I mean, Jesus Christ, even when I shot a woman in the head I thought I was still a decent human being. I did it for the right reasons; but what I did on April Fools day, none of that was for the right reasons. It was for no reason at all. I let all those people die, when I could have prevented it simply by speaking out. I don't even know why I did it. I lied to the police about the antidote, just like I lied to them about what happened to Joan Leeland. I pulled a knife on my own father. A good person would not do those things.

I spend the morning slowly making myself presentable; wash my hair, apply my makeup carefully, painting away the imperfections. The bags beneath my eyes betray me though, and no amount of concealer can hide the sunken appearance of my sudden insomnia. Joker won't be fooled by this pretty farce.

I love him. I really do. I've never been in love before, but now that I've put a name to it, I know that's what the feeling is. I never thought it would be this way, that my first love would be a man like him.

But what am I saying? There are no men like him. I say first love like there could ever be another. He's more than a man, he's a magnet. He's electricity, life, everything that I am, and even more of what I'm not. He has things I want for myself; confidence, charisma. Power. All my faults get buried beneath his brilliance when I'm with him.

He really is all that I have now. No real friends. No colleagues, because I let them all die. My dad will never speak to me again, and who can blame him? The only person on earth I still have is my mom, and I've pushed her so far away that I can't imagine ever being able to speak to her again. Dad will have told her everything. She'll be so worried, so ashamed. But she'll recover. It may take years, but she has Dad and the two of them only need each other in the end, so she will, and eventually she'll give up on trying to get in touch with her long-lost, problematic daughter. That's what hurts the most, knowing that they will move on, that they'll forget.

I tell myself over and over; Joker is all that I have. And now I have to push him away, too, and that terrifies me. He should be the one thing I'm running from, but the truth is, he's the one thing I have left to hold on to.

It's time for all of this to end. For three years the two of us have played this game. I try to count how many have died during that time, and by the time the death toll reaches twenty I can bear it no more. How many more dead bodies need to be added to the scale before it outweighs my feelings for him?

The truth is, I don't see an end. And that's why, as much as the thought of being without him kills me, I have to end this.

I arrive at Arkham with twenty minutes to spare before mine and Joker's session. Again, I find myself standing at the gates staring at the withering flowers in amongst the fresh bouquets. I try to imagine how many flowers that must be, how many petals. I remind myself to pick up a bouquet before I come into work on Friday, but what good are flowers when they're picked? Is that to be the legacy of the people killed on April Fool's day, more beautiful things dying for no reason?

I play with the thought that's occupied my mind for the last few days. The part of me that tells me that I have to step down, close the doors to Arkham and carve out a new life for myself, which terrifies me. Being alone, doing things alone, making all of the decisions for myself. I need to turn away from the only thing left in this world that I want, because there is no end to this spiral; where do we go from here? Will we be sixty years old, still playing the same game of cat and mouse across a therapy table, until I'm forced to retire and then the two of us die, pining and alone? Some might find it romantic. The truth is it's a tragedy.

I have to let Joker forget about me. Because he will, eventually, just like my parents will and most of my friends already have, as much as that thought burns my insides. He will be angry, may even try to have me killed for abandoning him, for daring to walk away. If he can't have me, the rest of the world can't either.

Maybe he'll succeed. The truth is, that doesn't sound too bad right about now.

 _The truth is, Mr. J, no one else wants me. You've already got me, heart and soul._

I would love for some miracle to occur, for the two of us to get our happy ending. Marriage, beautiful home, maybe even a couple of kids. It always sounded boring to me, but how could anything ever be boring with that man? I know it's nothing more than a delusion. Besides, happy endings are for good people. And I can't call myself one of those any more.

I carry myself to Joker's unit and press the buzzer, waiting for a response from one of the orderlies. No response comes. I try again, and wonder if he's kicking off and the orderlies are preoccupied with trying to settle him. After waiting for another five minutes, I head to reception and ask Pearl if she could call the unit.

"Oh… no one's told you?" she says, wide-eyed.

"Told me what?"

She rips off half a fingernail with her teeth, and flicks it from the sleeve of her shirt. "Uh, they've had to take him over to the medical facility. He's hurt pretty bad."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, Doctor Quinzel. No one tells me this stuff. He's been over there since Friday morning, after... you know."

Oh, I know alright. Lyle Bolton's face swims into my mind.

"I should have been told," I say coldly as I leave; she tells me I should probably check in with the Warden. I ignore her, though she's right, and head straight for the medical facility.

 _He's hurt pretty bad._ I hear those words a hundred times over during my walk to the medical wing, praying that she's wrong. I try to decipher what could have happened, but there's only one real answer. Rage boils up inside me at the thought, and as I enter the wards I'm ready to kill.

The Sanatorium is an unforgiving place. The erratic vibrancy of the rest of the asylum dies here, on the Beaumont Ward, which I have to walk through to reach the men's facility. Only the long-term patients occupy the Sanatorium, which in most cases means the patients who are going to die in these beds. The orderlies jokingly call it Death Row. There are only two places in the Asylum where male and female patients share the same space; here, and down in the isolated cells of maximum security. The least and most dangerous places, I think. People of both genders sit slumped on the edge of their cots, or lie within the thin sheets. Collar bones protrude from sunken, yellowish skin, molten onto small frames like candlewax. Sad, grey eyes stare into nothing. You would think these people were dead already were not for their slow blinking, or the occasional rise of a hand. The truly sad thing is that this is the most pleasant part of the medical facility.

Joker is not here, with the sedate, vegetative patients. Neither is he on the male ward where the patients who have sustained injuries from fights and accidents lie; instead, I find that he is on the Elizabeth Ward, which is reserved for the high-profile patients and those on suicide watch. Here most patients are strapped into their beds and each have an orderly monitoring them. An armed guard is stationed at the entrance to the ward, should any real trouble start. The nurse on the desk directs me to Joker's room. One room I pass has a man, unseen in shadow, screaming out.

"Please!" he is yelling, buckling against his restraints as two nurses try to calm him, "I have to feed the children! If I don't they'll starve! Please, _please!"_

In the room beside his, a schizophrenic patient begs for release.

 _It's coming,_ he wails, _we have to hide. Hide, hide, hide. Don't let it get to us._

I greet the two orderlies at Joker's door; I recognise neither of them, as these men are bound to the ward. They are silent, similar-looking, like two sentinels. In their white uniforms, they appear almost angelic, but there is no spinning sword between the two; it is no Eden they guard.

As I cross that threshold, I think of my own time in hospital; the cards, the flowers, the visitors. Everyone who cared with their condolences, good wishes, grapes and love. I see the myriad flowers laid outside the gates, for the people lost on April Fool's Day. There is no one to care for this man. He has no family to sit by his bedside and share his pain, to offer him comfort.

But he has me.

My heart sinks as I sit beside him. He's sleeping, serene, but what they've done to him… both eyes are black and swollen, his lip split. The right side of his face is almost completely covered in a spattering of purple bruising. His wrist has been broken, and is bound in a temporary cast. His legs are cuffed to the bed, despite the fact I doubt he could stand if he tried.

The sight of him alone is enough to bring tears to my eyes. Suddenly the thought of leaving him is an impossible one. I adjust his bedsheet, ensuring he is properly covered, and brush my fingers over the hand which isn't bound. I curl them in his own, holding him gently.

A medical Doctor who I don't recognise walks into the room.

"Doctor Quinzel, can I have a word?"

I follow after him into the corridor, where he hands me Joker's patient notes. I read from them that two of his ribs have been broken on his left side. Neither of them have punctured a lung, and there is no internal bleeding, thank God, but it will be a long while before he's back to his usual self.

"It looks worse than it actually is," the doctor tells me.

"What's being done about the orderlies?" I say sharply, my blood boiling. The doctor gives me a quizzical look.

I imagine their fists pounding into him, Lyle Bolton in the lead, beating on a man with no means to defend himself. "I understand that they're angry, wanted to make him pay for what happened last week, and to Frederick, but to answer violence with violence, when your job is to _care_ for someone-"

"Doctor Quinzel," the doctor interrupts, "has no one briefed you yet? You don't seem to have the right impression."

My face contorts. "Well, what would be the right impression?"

The doctor clears his throat, directs me to the file again. "All of these injuries are self-inflicted."

I have to let that soak in for a moment. _Ridiculous._

"No," I tell him, "no, you've got it wrong. Are you crazy? Of course they'd say that, they're trying to cover their asses. They've been beating Joker for months on end, he told me it's been going on since before I came back to Arkham."

"I really don't think that's the case."

"I've seen the bruises!"

"So have I, Doctor Quinzel. I wouldn't be surprised if those were self-inflicted, too."

"You really think he would _crack his own ribs?_ Why would anyone do that?!"

"You're the psychiatrist, Doctor Quinzel. I'm sure you're more qualified to deal with the _why's_ of the situation. Regardless, I can assure you that last night's injuries are self-inflicted."

Suddenly it clicks. The crackling rage smokes to the surface as I confront the man.

"You're covering it up," I bite. "God, do none of you people have any morals?! He is _mentally ill._ We're here to help him, that's our job. You're going to let a bunch of thugs get away with breaking your patient's bones, and write it off as, _oh, he's crazy?!"_

The doctor doesn't take the accusation lightly. The two of us begin to argue, at which point a rake-thin woman a head taller than me with straight dark hair clips her way up the corridor and calls my name. I ignore her at first, caught up in trying to get the Doctor to admit to the truth. She steps directly in front of me and clears her throat sharply, so that I've no choice but to give her my full attention. Still riled, I don't like the look she's giving me.

"And you are?"

She stares down her spectacles at me. "Alyce Sinner. The Director of the board."

 _Oh._ I look her over again, from head to pointed toe. She doesn't look much like a director of anything; she's perhaps a handful of years older than me, though her severe face, pinched glasses and motionless hairstyle makes her look older.

"I've come to talk to you about your patient. Changes need to be made. Come with me."

I do so. She sits me down in one of the disused offices, lies her paperwork out on the desk, and gives it to me straight.

"Whatever you're doing with the clown is clearly not working. Arkham hasn't had an incident of that magnitude outside of the breakout in the last fifteen years. It's not good for publicity, or staff morale."

 _Or the staff, either,_ I think, disliking the way she writes off their deaths. Her manner reminds me of Joan Leeland, which gives me even more reason to dislike her.

"I'm arranging for a transfer for a new practitioner from Star Labs in Metropolis. You may have heard of him. His name is Hugo Strange. He's very good at what he does, a strong advocate of hypnotherapy, which is something I don't believe any of Joker's previous Doctors have tried, or at least not to a competent level. He's also trained in ECT, a course of which would benefit the patient."

"No," I tell her, "no electroshock. It's outdated, and it's risky-"

"It's been proven to help with a myriad of conditions."

"Leeland tried it," I tell her, struggling to remember the details, "Doctor Leeland, that is. It was disastrous, Joker's told me about it a couple of times, he _hated_ it-"

"With all due respect Doctor Quinzel, you are far too soft on that madman. It's not about whether the patient enjoys his therapy or not. It's about fixing him, or containing him if that fails."

I shake my head. "Joker and I have made heaps of progress without so much as a spark of electricity. You need to talk to Warden Sharp. There's no way he will approve any electroshock therapy."

"He already has," Sinner tells me. "He's signed the paperwork this morning. You have another month or so with the patient while I arrange for Doctor Strange's transfer. Then you'll be taken off his case and put back on the general rota."

Again my blood is boiling. I put it down to the new dose of venom, but it could very well be nothing but my own rage.

"I'll talk to Sharp," I say bitterly, standing without being excused. Sinner watches as I storm from the room, but says not a word.

I charge to Quincy's office. Once I reach it, I enter without knocking, and find him in the middle of a phone conversation. He makes his excuses as I take my seat and ends the call.

"You've approved having me taken off Joker's case?!" I say, "and you're setting him up for electroshock therapy?! They'll fry his brain!"

"I understand that you're upset, Harleen," he implores.

"Upset?!" I say, "have you lost your damn mind?! Do you know what this means?! How safe do you think your family will be once Joker hears about this?!"

"There won't be a chance for that," Quincy declares, laying down his master plan. "Don't you see? Electroshock is the answer! I've read through all of Leeland's reports on the clown. She said she tried him on a two-month course of electroshock and he responded incredibly poorly to it. He claimed to remember even less than he already did from the chemical accident, it really scrambled his brain."

"Exactly, that's _horrible-!"_

"Doctor Strange and I worked at Star Labs together, we're old friends. How easy will it be for Doctor Strange to make a mistake, scramble Joker to the point where he's no longer a threat? It's our answer, Harley!"

I reel away from him. "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"He's had a hold over the two of us for far too long. Over our families. My girls, your parents, they'll be safe! We do this, keep the new Doctor a secret between the pair of us until the transfer goes through, and the clown won't have a chance to react. It may not be moral, but it's the only way. You'll be free of him, Harleen. And you can't say he doesn't deserve it, all the people he's hurt over the years! We'll be saving countless lives in the future. It's the right thing to do. For all of us."

I leave the office, shaking. I can barely believe how everything has once again changed so quickly; I think of Joker, battered and bruised, lying in that hospital bed bleeding because of those men, think of the doctors and nurses who are covering up the crime. Sharp and Strange and Sinner, with their diabolical plans, and me between them all, the only person on this planet who sees the injustice of it all. The last four days I'd resigned myself to the thought of leaving for everyone's good, Joker's included. I realise now that I'm the only one who would ever look out for him, save him from these monsters and their wicked schemes. I can't leave.

Not without him.

I head back to the Elizabeth Ward, pass by the two orderlies and take my seat where I belong, at Joker's side. I stroke his faded green hair away from his pale bruised face, resting my hand atop his head. Sharp's malicious plan terrifies me; the idea of Joker in a vegetative state, his brilliant, beautiful mind shocked into mush, is worse than anything that's haunted me in my nightmares. I watch him sleep for a long while, trying to stay the tears in my eyes.

When he wakes, it is in a sharp, jolting motion. I wonder if he's just woken from his own nightmare. He opens his languid eyes, and as they focus on me, his soft expression wavers. He pushes himself painfully up into a sitting position, a best he can with his shattered ribs, one arm reaching for my own; I sit up to reach him, and he wraps his bruised arm around me; he feels weak, like a marionette, his eyes black with bruising. He says my name, a hoarse whisper that breaks my heart. I pull my own arms around him as he breathes heavily, clearly trying to hold something back.

Have you ever held a child as they cry? I'm not talking crocodile tears, or the sort they weep when they've scraped their knee. I'm talking about the way a child will come to you after you've had to break the news to them that the family pet has been put down, or they're lost in a supermarket and can't find their mother. That's how this feels, his hands bunched up into the fabric of my jacket as he sobs, actually sobs. There is no sound, but I feel the way his body convulses, wracked with pain. My hatred towards anyone who dare hurt him increases tenfold. I hold him like the mother he can't remember might have.

He rests his head against my chest, saturating the front of my shirt with hot, silent tears. I hold him close, running my fingers through his faded green hair, feeling helpless. Seeing him like this is enough to break my heart.

"Come on, Puddin…"

He raises his head and burrows himself against my neck, breathing huskily, trying to regain composure. He turns his face to my ear and whispers three words.

I press my lips to his bruised cheek, resolute in my decision.

"What do you want me to do?"


	19. Chapter Eighteen: The Iceberg Lounge

**Chapter Eighteen:**

 **The Iceberg Lounge**

Maybe I am crazy, for doing what I do next.

I have my instructions from Joker, along with a date; Saturday. On the morning of that day, though, I have something else to attend to.

The memorial service is a simple affair, but a well-attended one. There are at least seven hundred of us gathered in the large park; the organisers decided that stuffing hundreds of mourners and paparazzi into the tiny Iron Sister's Cemetery would be unreasonable, and the grassy pitch opposing the Monarch Theatre was the next best thing. Family members and friends stand closest to the memorial centrepiece, along with prominent philanthropists and socialites; I recognise a handful of them from when Arkham was refurbished. No Bruce Wayne, though. He's off doing aid work in some remote country, apparently, helping to build sustainable housing for the poor. No one could fault him for that, I suppose. He's sent a sizeable donation to a local charity helping those dealing with grief, anyhow.

Seeing the family members of those killed makes me very, very uncomfortable. I try to avoid eye contact with any of them, silence their sobs by thinking of other things, but it's near impossible to ignore them, or the loved ones they have lost. Their blood cries out from the ground.

The rest of we Arkham staff along with a select few monitored patients gather about the outskirts of the company. Our heads are bowed as we listen to a priest recite bible passages and family members and celebrated staff come forward to pay their respects with speeches. Jeremiah has been included in the select patients; he has been allowed to wear a suit for the occasion and looks almost like the man I met three years ago. I stand beside him, and when we hear the name of colleagues I know he was friends with, I squeeze his hand in my own.

When Quincy Sharp steps forwards to pay his condolences, I struggle to focus on the words he's saying rather than my seething anger towards him. Alyce Sinner stands sour-faced in the crowd, dour in a grey pin-stripe dress and pointed patent heels. _Witch shoes,_ I think, and a new nickname is born; _the Witch_ suits Miss Sinner perfectly in my books.

When the service comes to a close, Jeremiah is briskly carted away; I give him a quick hug before he's taken, not caring much what anyone else thinks. He's my friend, patient or practitioner. I kiss his cheek and he smiles a little, and it's the first real smile I've seen from him since his family were murdered.

I aim to get myself out of here as quickly as possible, unable to face the families of the colleagues I let die. The semi-regular ordeal of manoeuvring through the paparazzi once again arises. A handful of them know me by name, know who I work with, and bombard me with questions as to why I wasn't aware of Joker's big plan. I ignore them, pushing through, and manage to almost break through the crowd before one of them makes a grab for me. I pull away from their touch and yell for him to back off, before recognising the man. Those easy eyes are not easily forgotten.

"Can I trouble you for a quick interview, Doctor Quinzel?"

He pulls me aside, warning the others off his scoop; they're quickly distracted when Quincy and Sinner begin pushing their way through their ranks.

"Well, look who it is," I say, relaxing a little. "Are you stalking me, ' _Mr. Ryder?'"_

He smirks, camera and press badge slung about his neck.

"It's good cover. No one pays any attention to the paparazzi. And no, I'm not stalking you. The big man asked me to keep an eye on this whole shebang. You never know what's going to happen when you pool a bunch of Gothamites together… or what you might overhear."

I brace my arms against the cold, looking about for the quickest exit. Any mention of the Bat makes me uncomfortable. "Can't he run his own errands?"

"He's a little pre-occupied."

"Let me guess; vigilante stuff."

He nods.

"Sounds exciting," I muse, paying little attention as I spot a full taxi bay just across the street. "It's lovely running into you, but I've gotta go. I've got a big night ahead of me."

"That sounds more interesting than gate-crashing a memorial service," Nightwing muses, jogging along beside me. "Don't suppose there's room for one more on your adventure."

"Not this time," I say, brushing down my black dress. I remember to smile. "I'll see you around, secret agent."

"Yeah," he says, a little thrown off by my immediacy to leave. He slinks back and disappears into the gaggle of press. "See you around, Harley."

I find the address of the joint online back at my apartment, then spend the next couple of hours building up the courage to go through with my task and dressing myself appropriately; curled hair, high heels, and a snug sapphire dress with diamante detailing which hugs the tops of my legs and ends just above the knee. I worry for a moment that I'm giving the impression that I'm looking for trouble, but who cares? Trouble has a way of finding me whether I'm looking for it or not.

I arrive at the club for eight o'clock, fifteen minutes before the Iceberg Lounge opens its doors for the night. The evening is chilly, and I immediately regret my outfit choice. I feel confident in my appearance, though, which helps me stand a little taller as I wait in line for the lounge to open. I'm one of very few people stood alone, and there seems to be a very clear pattern of people in the line; young women, skinnier and prettier than me in shorter and lower-cut dresses hanging onto the arms of well-dressed men in their forties and upwards. The girls stand giggling like schoolgirls or stoic and elegant as carved angels in a graveyard. There are a spattering of similar-looking ladies alone throughout the line, no doubt hoping they might be able to find their own well-dressed gentleman to cling to and giggle over, and the odd out-of-place young man who's dressed up to the ear, hoping he'll be able to grab some of their attentions instead. I manage to blend in quite well with the solo crowd.

When the doors open and I reach the front of the line, the two bouncers nod at my appearance then ask me for the $60 admission fee. I've never been anywhere that requires $60 just to get through the front door, and there's a hint of sorrow as I accept my wrist band, which will allow me re-entry to the club should I need to leave at any point in the night.

Once inside the club, I find that it's like no nightspot I've ever been to, not that I'm much of a connoisseur of such places. The music is not intrusively loud or bass-lead. The décor is high class, chilly blues and crystalline whites, lazy velvet booths dripping with ornate chandeliers and intricate carvings. The stage is quiet at the moment, though a waifish woman in a dress as translucent as a cobweb drifts about the stage, humming low, wispy melodies.

I cannot let myself get distracted by the cool-blue atmosphere. Whilst it is still quiet, I start looking about for a member of staff; the only place to find one seems to be at the bar, which is empty apart from one or two drifters. I take a seat on the furthest bar-stool from the others ordering drinks. There is a woman tending the counter wearing a skimpy cocktail dress, slashed at the front with a panel of Chantilly lace. She has short cropped hair, long bangs dancing about her face. She is beautiful.

"Hey, cutie," the dark-haired bartender says, sashaying my way. "Great dress. You're new, right?"

"Right."

"Well, you're in luck- ladies' first drinks are free. What are you having?"

"Actually, I... um..."

I'm not sure how to word what I have to say now that I'm face to face with the situation, regardless of the fact I've replayed the scenario in my mind a hundred times since Wednesday. I stare dumbly at the barmaid, who gives me a sympathetic smile in return. The stylish vertical cut of her dress against her small breasts makes it difficult to maintain eye contact. She doesn't seem to mind, and throws me a wink as she reaches for a bottle of something electric blue and glittering.

She gums the rim of a cocktail glass and rolls it in bright pink sugar, pours the sapphire liquid into the glass with a splash of white spirit and thrusts two cocktail umbrellas in for good measure, along with a candy-striped straw.

"You look like a girl who likes a little sparkle," she says. "Here, try this. Whirlpool Daquiri, rather than Hurricane. One of my creations, and the best cocktail we serve in my opinion."

I thank her for the drink and take a long, syrupy sip. I swallow back the sugary concoction, smack my lips and give it to her straight.

"I need to see Frost."

Her demure changes. She pulls the striped straw towards herself and takes a slow, purposeful sip.

"Someone sent you?"

I nod. She nods in return.

"Give me five minutes."

She disappears down a corridor at the back of the bar room. When she returns, it is with a short, hunched caricature of a man, well-dressed but hideous. He could be anywhere from forty to sixty-five, so distorting is his ugliness. But I've seen worse, so I give him a bright smile as he approaches.

"This is her?" The little man asks, pulling himself up onto the stool beside mine.

"I'm her," I answer, swirling my straw in my drink. "Are you Frost?"

The man laughs, shaking his head. "No, I'm not that wanker. He's here, though. What business has a lovely little thing like you got with a prat like Johnny Frost? Who sent you?"

"I don't think I can say."

"Well, that's bloody typical, isn't it. Hang on... you're not a floozy, are you? I've them a thousand times, I don't want hookers squirming around my club, and never through the front entrance! I've got a reputation to uphold!"

"I'm not a lady of the night," I say cooly. "I just need to talk to him about something. It's confidential."

 _"'Confidential?'"_ the manager says, his tone whimsical, mocking. I struggle to place his accent. "I don't like secrets in my establishment, little missy."

He pulls a monocle of all things out of his pocket and holds it up to his eye, taking a long, scrutinizing look at me. When he lowers it his face is impossible to read, somewhere between startled, angered and excited.

"Oh, bloody hell, I've cracked it. You're that shrink, Quinn. Joker's girl."

He reads my surprise and chuckles.

"I like to keep a close eye on the Asylum. That's how you keep yourself out of the damned place... Selina, love, go tell Frost he's got a visitor. Send Candy through."

No one has ever referred to me as _"Joker's Girl"_ before. I find that I quite like it.

The manager clicks his fingers at the second bartender the moment she scurries through from the corridor. "Candy, pour Miss Quinn a drink, and hurry up about it."

"I've got one, thanks," I say, raising my glass. I wonder just how much this man knows of the goings-on within the asylum walls. It's amazing how quickly the mention of the word 'Joker' can turn even Gotham's elite into accommodating drivel.

"No no no, you don't want to be drinking that crap." He takes my daiquiri and pours it down the bar's overflow grill. "Mix her a Mojito, sugar."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Cobblepot."

I shuffle. "I was quite enjoying that one, actually-"

"Alright, alright, she'll make you another one of those, then. Have whatever you fancy, It's all on the house."

The club owner scurries out front of the bar, taking my second drink from the blonde as he goes and thrusting it upon me with that pained, sustained smile. He seems intent upon pandering to my every whim now that he's deciphered who I am; I wonder if he's had dealings with Joker in the past.

"That's very kind, Mr...?"

"Oswald Cobblepot," he responds, proudly.

"What an unusual name." I make my smile a friendly one to hide the fact I'm laughing at him. "Can I call you Ozzy?"

His eyes say no, but his grimace says, _whatever you want, just don't get me in trouble with the clown._ That's a look I imagine I'll grow used to.

"Now, if you'll follow me I'll give you a tour of my humble establishment whilst we wait for word from our mutual friend."

I follow after him as he waddles left and right, sipping my drink as I'm lead about the spacious club. I don't correct him whenever he gets my surname wrong. The spidery singer begins a dreamy tune, accompanied by a harp and a piano.

"All of these are genuine Italian crystal," the small man boasts, gesturing to the grandiose chandeliers. "Imported and assembled over here by the very men who made them. Cost a fortune, but I'll have nothing but the best here, no expenses spared."

He waves to the occasional suited gentleman lounging in the plush booths, addressing them with titles such as _Judge_ and _Senator._ This place really is high profile, and Mr. Cobblepot is clearly very proud of that. He has a wet, nasal laugh, which he applies liberally at every comment his rich customers pass.

Once I've received a lengthy education Frenchnch wines and the best place to buy genuine Italian leather, the barmaid who first serves me reappears and whisper's in the manager's ear; he leads me towards the back of the lounge, out through the back of the bar and down a dark, narrow corridor with plush velvet walls. The singer cannot be heard at all here, and I decide that the corridor must be sound proof.

"Where are we going?" I ask, feeling less at ease with every step I take down the dark carpeted path.

"Count yourself very lucky, Miss Quinn," the manager says, "you've secured yourself a ticket to the most exclusive club in Gotham."

 _Here we go with the exclusivity again. Textbook narcissism._

"I know," I say in mock-amazement, feeding his ego, "your place is out of this world."

He laughs his soggy laugh, fiddling with a door at the end of the walkway. "No no no, miss. The lounge is just the tip of the iceberg, if you'll pardon the pun. I thought the name was quite clever. I'm talking about _this."_

He opens the door and suddenly bass-lead music shatters through my ears, deafeningly loud; Cobblepot grins, drawing aside a glimmering beaded curtain and showing me the world beyond.

And what a different world it is. Here the décor is dramatically different, cool silvers and blues replaced with gold, gold, and more gold. The shine covers every surface, intrusive, blinding, and cage dancers in sequinned gold outfits send dozens of sparkling lights reflecting off every surface, acting as living disco balls.

There are an equal number of security staff to dancers, standing vigil in corners and at every doorway. Despite the early hour, many of the people within appear already drunken, dancing in a frenzy. I realise that there are no windows in here; no way of keeping time with the outside world. In here, it can always be a party, regardless of the hour. Women and lithe young men in less than most would wear to the tanning salon grind shamelessly in the laps of people hidden by shadows in private booths. I avert my eyes as I follow after the manager through the crowds, past a booth cornered off by a red velvet rope, gold chain curtains concealing the plush leather seats beyond. It is the only section of the club which remains unoccupied, and people seem to be keeping their distance.

The manager draws back the curtain to the booth beside it. Inside sits an unassuming man in a dark suit, with a short cropped beard and vacant, unforgiving eyes. Oswald bears his broken teeth in a slimy imitation of a grin.

"Ah, Mr. Frost. A pleasure to have your coustom, as always. Here's the young lady who has been asking for you."

 _This is Frost?_ The way Joker described him, I was expecting someone whose appearance had quite a bit of character, like this odd-looking manager; _loyal, adventurous, and a real hoot,_ those were Joker's exact words. I'd been quite terrified that he would be almost as much as a handful as the clown himself, but this man has the appearance of your typical high-end security guard, two streaks of foxy grey prancing across his temples the only non-conformist thing about him. He is the complete antithesis of Joker; unassuming, silent, startlingly controlled in comparison to the rest of the club. Whereas the world surrounding him revels in indulgence, Frost does not even have a drink in his hand. He does not look to be enjoying himself, which begs the question why he is here in the first place.

I know the answer to that, though. Joker explained it all. Before he was locked up, he had Frost agree to come to the club every other Saturday night. Joker would find himself a buffer- someone he could bribe or blackmail at the asylum, an orderly or in this case, me- and send them to meet with Frost and deliver any instructions he might have. Frost would do the dirty work, the heavy stuff, ensuring everything was laid out just as Joker wanted it, no matter what his ask. That's how he was able to see out all of his madcap schemes, the breakout at the Asylum, the April Fools Day massacre.

When I asked Joker where the money was coming from to keep Frost in his employ when he has been locked away for so long, he only chuckled and told me that Frost sees to the business side of things, controlling his assets, and that certain 'operations' are still in place even with Joker locked up for a decade. I don't inquire as to what those operations could be, but I do ask what stops Frost from cutting Joker off completely and reaping the benefits. Joker only chuckles and says that there are some things money can't buy.

"Well, I'll leave the two of you to it," Mr. Cobblepot says. "You know where I am should you need anything... anything at all."

With the strange little man gone, I turn to Johnny Frost.

"Can I sit down."

He nods his head, once, as though anything else would be too much effort. I take a seat, feeling very nervous.

"So, uh... why do they call you Frost?"

"Because that's my name," he responds monotonously, not even meeting my eyes.

"Oh. I thought maybe it was a nickname... you remember that Mr. Freeze guy who was around before Joker went away? He was a riot, wasn't he?"

Nothing from Frost. After a minute of deathly silence I make another attempt at small talk, but the man shakes his head.

"It's best not to say any more than you have to. It complicates things."

He too has a thick accent which I struggle to place... New Zealand, perhaps? South African? After a moment more of uncomfortable silence, I get straight to the point.

"I'm Harleen Quinzel. I work at Arkham-"

"I know who you are. Believe me, I've heard a lot about you."

I try for a joke. "All good things, I hope."

He doesn't smile. I see that there's no way I can crack through his icy composure. There's no way of alleviating this tension, because I'm not sure he even has the emotional capacity to realise that it exists.

"I'm here from Joker," I tell him bluntly. He seems to appreciate bluntness. "He told me to tell you that it's time to let the jack out of the box. He said that you'd know what to do."

Frost nods. He asks me a few of the ins and outs of the asylum, and I give up the information without any hesitation. I explain that he is being kept on the medical ward and why. I make sure that he knows where I fit into this whole plan, which he seems quite dismissive of, telling me that we can finalise the details when we meet here again partway through next week. I don't much fancy the idea of another uncomfortable meeting with Frost, but I'll endure it for what it will achieve.

In the middle of our conversation, Frost clicks his fingers and a toned girl in a gold bodysuit appears through the beaded curtain behind his head, swinging her long legs over the back of the booth; I use the word girl, because that's what she is, no older than seventeen. Her caramel skin is lit up with a shimmering body oil. She has a hard, severe face which gives the impression that she is much older in mind than her lean figure would suggest. She looks as though she's never smiled a day in her life.

Frost whispers in her ear and she vanishes back through the curtain for an incredibly uncomfortable five minutes. Frost's lack of awareness or care for social awkwardness becomes even more apparent. I down the rest of the daiquiri, judging a boost in confidence to be of more use than a clear head in this particular situation. I force an attempt at making small talk, asking if there's a particular reason why Frost doesn't have a drink. He says you need a cool head in a place like this, then says nothing more.

The girl returns and places a cheap-looking cell phone down on the table along with a USB cable. Frost gestures for me to take it.

"Keep that on you at all times. Tell no one you have it. It receives calls only. You'll be getting one soon enough." He slides a wad of cash across the table, precisely $60. "I'll meet you back here next Tuesday to discuss your part in the scheme."

 _Scheme._ I don't like the idea of scheming, of being a schemer. I nod, vaguely understanding the implications as I stuff the phone, money and USB cable into my clutch bag. "And, uh, how soon is soon enough? Can I get an estimate?"

Frost frowns. "I don't work in estimates. You should leave now."

 _That's it?_ I stand, edging out of the booth.

"Just one thing before I do," I say impulsively, continuing before he has a chance to interrupt. "Joker told me that he's had people on the outside since the beginning, orderlies he's had in his pocket or contacts through other inmates to be the buffer between him and you. He told me you're here every Saturday, waiting for any instructions. So why hasn't he ever sent one of them to do this, if it's as simple as sharing six words?"

For a moment I think he isn't going to answer my question. He looks up at me with cold, distant eyes. I wonder if he's ever truly bothered to look at anyone, to _see_ someone, in his life.

"He said that he wasn't ready," Frost answers. "Not all the pawns were in place."

I swig the last of my drink and raise my glass to him. "Good luck."

"Once," he says by means of farewell, and gives me another nod of the head. I make my way through the frenzied room, dazzled by the madness of it all, the fragrant sexual energy. The atmosphere is charged, as effervescent and sparkling as the gold it surrounds itself in. I've never seen a place quite like this before, and why most of me is enjoying myself about as much as Frost is, part of me wants to stay longer and wonder at the dazzlingly dark world from the shadows.

Oswald is stood near the rear door where we came in, waiting for me. He says he hopes it all went well and I assure him that it did. When I tell him in confidence that I'll be back next week, he seems delighted. He leads me back into the public face of the lounge, with the slow ethereal singing and the icy decor and the imported leather seats. No one would ever guess at the seedy madness hiding just behind these walls.

"Feel free to hang around, Miss Quinn," Oswald says at the bar, "like I said, drinks are on the house. My girls'll take care of you, they're the best barmaids you'll find around these parts."

I extend a hand for him to shake, and he takes it in his own clammy palm. Dead man's hands, I think, like that of a corpse bloated by water, fleshy and cold. I wipe my hand down on the rich leather bar stool beside me once he turns away.

I decide I will stick around. I deserve to relax, after the stress of fulfilling my task. Besides, there's no point letting an $60 entrance fee go to waste, especially not when the music is good and the cocktails are free. Candy whips me up another colourful concoction, this one lime green and rimmed with coconut ice. Once the tangy green drink is gone I drag my finger around the rim of the glass, lifting the sticky coconut into my mouth and savoring the sweet taste.

A figure appears at my side. "So, do you come here often?"

"Do people actually use that line?" I muse, a little tipsy now from my three drinks.

"It was a joke," the figure says, and this time I recognise his voice. I look up at him and my suspicions are confirmed.

"You _are_ stalking me," I say, dryly. Nightwing grimaces.

"No! Well... I am _now._ I wasn't earlier, that was just a coincidence."

"You followed me here?" I say, loudly. "Do you have any idea how creepy that is?"

"Keep it down, will you," he whispers, noticing the barmaids looking in our direction. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, after... well, you know. Everything. Besides, we still haven't had that drink. This seems like the perfect time to me."

I look him up and down. He's made some sort of an effort, and looks like a real greaser; slicked-back hair, gold chain, open mauve shirt. It's a difficult look to pull off, and I can't quite decide if he sits on the side of tacky or alluring. Either way, his presence sets me on edge. Still, he doesn't seem to be suspicious of anything. I force myself to relax.

"Fine," I secede. "Get me another one of those coconut-lime things and I won't issue a restraining order against you."

He agrees. As Candy pours my drink, she eyes Nightwing suspiciously.

"He giving you any trouble?"

"None at all, Candy. We're old friends."

"Whatever you say." She hands over our drinks and moves further down the bar to tend to someone new.

Nightwing shifts in his seat. "On first-name basis with the staff? This doesn't really seem like your sort of hang-out, Harley. You know the guy who owns this place is a mob boss, right?"

"Ozzy?!" I question, becoming tipsier by the minute. I decide to make this my last drink. "No! He seems harmless... a little goofy, but aren't we all."

He frowns deeper.

"When I finally got in here I looked around for you, then you come out back with Cobblepot. Why were you talking with him?"

"It was nothing," I say defensively. "I got lost, is all. He showed me the way back. Anyway, it's none of your business, sidekick. You're not my babysitter, you know."

"I see myself as more of a guardian angel," he jokes. When I don't laugh, he turns serious again, lowers his tone to make sure that anyone who happens to be listening won't catch our conversation.

"...I wiped your fingerprints off that gun at the GCPD." He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. "I did it so that you could have a fresh start. I'm supposed to uphold the law at all costs, it's part of the whole vigilante gig. The Bat would flip if he found out. I did it for you because I know you didn't ask for all of this crap. I just don't want you getting wrapped up in anything you can't handle."

 _It's too late for that,_ I think. I could almost laugh were it not so sad.

I roll my eyes over my glass, trying to laugh away my growing discomfort, and picturing him buffing prints from a handgun in a dark GCPD lock-up. "Alright, _Dad."_

"I'm being serious," he says. "These are dangerous people you're surrounding yourself with, Harley, none of whom are ever gonna look out for your interests."

"Oh, I almost forgot," I interrupt sarcastically, "that's your job. My night in shining armour." I pinch his cheek, to let him know that I don't mean it maliciously- well, maybe I do. "Look, I've gotta get home. It's getting late. Always a pleasure catching up with you, whatever your name is."

He knocks back the rest of his drink. "I'll walk you home."

"Walk? Haven't you brought your noble steed along with you?"

"Afraid not, it's in the garage for an MOT. Come on, finish your martini and let's go."

"It's not a martini, it's a... well to be honest, I don't know what it is. Anyway, I'm fine getting home by myself."

"No, you're not. You're all wobbly. I'm coming with you."

I smile as I totter towards the exit. "Reporter, vigilante, guardian angel, knight in shining armour, and a gentleman to boot. Is there anything you can't do, Jack Ryder?"

"I can't tell you my real name," he muses, taking my arm as we leave the club. "You'd only laugh, anyway."

"Really? Ooh, is it something really embarrassing, like Gillian?"

 _"Worse."_

"It's Lesley, isn't it. You look like a Lesley."

"You think so?"

"That or a Marian _. Ha ha ha ha!"_

"Stop!" he laughs, as we pour from the club laughing. "You'll get us arrested for disturbing the peace."

I laugh harder. "Now that would be beautiful irony. You, an outlaw vigilante, me shooting a woman in the head, and we get arrested for rowdiness! _Ha!"_

He doesn't find that quite so funny. I don't think he likes to be reminded that I actually killed someone, that I'm not quite the innocent victim he likes to imagine me as. I ramble on at him in psychological terms about how he seems to be projecting his own thoughts and wants onto me, imagining me to be much more delicate and pure than I am, and how this is harmful to both of us; though it all sounds good in my head the words don't come out right, and by the time we reach my house I've given up altogether on trying to explain the way I feel to him.

"I'm glad we finally had that drink," he says at the bottom of the steps to my building. I give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Me too, mystery man." I head up the steps and fiddle with the keys, turning to wave goodbye once I'm in the doorway.

There's a sad look on Nightwing's face.

"You're a good woman, Harleen," he tells me in the moonlight, only honestly in his voice. "Don't forget that."

I give him a warm but dismissive smile, and salute him as I go inside and close the door behind me.

I forget what he's said the moment my head meets the pillow.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: Set in Motion

**Chapter Nineteen:**

 **Set in Motion**

Things are quiet in the hospital room, aside from the beeping of the monitors. The air is cool and conditioned, and a pleasant floral smell perfumes the air from the lilac flowers I've brought to brighten up the place and add a splash of colour in amongst the grey of the small unit.

"Eat your grapes," I say. Joker puts down his newspaper and sours.

"What is it with hospitals and grapes?" he questions loudly, starting at the shrivelling fruits on his bedside table and pushing the reading glasses higher up his nose. A five-minute rant about the nuisance of grapes follows, in which he relays several ways in which a patient might die simply by their presence; I nod along, though my attention remains on the magazine in my hand. It's one of the stranger things I've heard from him since he's been in here, but I'd rather have him debating the discrepancies of fruits than lying sedate and victim-like. This is the brightest I've seen him in a while.

"…And then, of course, there's choking, which it's very easy to do on a grape- hey, that gives me an idea. Maybe we could offer some to the orderlies?"

"I'll add it to the list," I smirk, setting the magazine aside and reaching over to grab the bunch. "Open wide."

"Weren't you listening to what I said?" he rebukes, shifting a little. The monitors and machines around him beep softly. "Do you want to watch me choke to death?"

"Stop being a drama clown and eat up. That Doctor said you haven't been eating properly."

He rolls his shoulders back with a groan. "I've barely been doing anything, Harley. Life isn't so easy when you can barely move. Pooping into a cardboard pan is no fun, I'll tell you that much. Almost makes me feel a little guilty for the handful of souls I've put in wheelchairs over the years."

I pluck the ripest-looking grape and pop it in his reluctant mouth. He worries over it for a while before swallowing it down.

"I do rather like grapes," he admits. I kiss him lightly on his bruised forehead and sit back down, leaving the rest in his lap.

It's Monday afternoon. The head Doctor on the ward suggested to me this morning that Joker no longer needs to be housed in the medical facility. I directed him to his condition, and he said that he's always more sprightly when I'm not around, and thinks that he is playing on his injuries for sympathy. I tell him that until I see him back to his usual, upbeat self, I don't want him moved. He mutters that I'll be gone by the end of the month, then he's out of here regardless. He couldn't be more right. After that encounter, I saw fit to take myself straight to Quincy's office. I broke down, admitting to him that yes, of course, he is right about everything; the scheme of the botched electroshock treatment is our only option, and we are not bad people for seeing such a thing through. I cry crocodile tears and allow him to put his arms around my shoulders, assure me that it will all be over soon. He's right about that at least.

He tells me all about Doctor Strange, how revered he is, and I pretend to be interested, pretend that the idea of working with new patients is appealing. I ask him for records of all of the inmates I might take on, express an interest in dealing with those down in maximum security. He finds me out a selection of patient files, and in his new-found fondness for me says I can choose whichever of them I would like to work with and he'll have it arranged.

I take the files home and pour over them all evening. Several of the patients catch my interest, and reading through their files is a real treat. Some of them I've heard of, such as Garfileld Lynns, who goes by the name Firefly, a pyromaniac who burned the Gotham fire department the ground a couple of years back. Then there are more obscure characters, like a man who believes he is the reincarnation of Zeus and a woman whose name and history no one knows, only that she latches onto authority figures, mimicking their mannerisms and traits in a desperate attempt to become someone else, even going so far as to murder the people she imitates, viewing them as doppelgangers to herself. As her last key worker was Doctor Leeland, she is currently living as an imitation of Joan. I shudder and set her file quickly aside.

In the end, I narrow it down to two high-security patients; Waylon Jones, the crocodile man, and Pamela Isley, the eco-terrorist who- according to the high-security files- has the ability to control plant life.

I decide that Jones is too high risk; why his volatile nature and brute strength is ideal for my purposes, he doesn't have much of a reputation for being reasonable or particularly bright, and I don't much like the idea of being eaten or something similar; after all, he has garnered quite the reputation for cannibalism. Our head of security, Aaron Cash, lost a hand to him a few years back. He is too much of a force for me to control.

So, I decide, Isley is the patient for me. I recognise her in the photographs, remembering the beautiful full-bodied woman I exchanged glances with down in maximum security all that time ago. I call up work the following day and ask Quincy if I could drop by to look into Isley's files a little more, and spend the morning reading through previous accounts and watching footage top secret footage of Isley in action; she began, it seems, as your regular nature nut, a vegan conservationist working at the botanical gardens in Metropolis. Then she turned to more malicious means, becoming involved with attacks on companies involved in heavy deforestation. Somewhere along the way she must have encountered some unnatural force, because footage shows her arrest after a string of impossible feats; they found her alone, having taken over the gardens where she had worked, seemingly grown into the plants around her; the footage is near unbelievable, and shows her attacking the officers who came for her using moving vines which seem to move in sync with her own movements, as though she and the vegetation were somehow symbiotic. The film shows the officers having to cut her loose from the plant life after using some device to squander the levels of carbon dioxide inside the enclosed gardens to the point where Isley and her bewitched vegetation could no longer function. The paperwork tells me that there have been plans to move her to a newly built institution specifically for her brand of chaos, Belle Reve, which will house only those with similar supernatural abilities. It's madness, but in a world where the so-called Superman can exist, I know there's probably much worse hidden deep in the bowels of these institutions which we regular people are blissfully unaware of.

I spend the afternoon watching over Joker then head to the Iceberg Lounge again in the evening to talk things through with Frost. Our meeting goes well, and by its end the plan seems to be in place. He's already started moving the pieces on the board, and tells me that so long as I can uphold my part in the scheme, things should go as smoothly as can be expected for a break-out. With all that seen to I sit out front at the bar again, drinking down the dreamy music and a couple of Candy's delicious cocktails. Oswald again finds time to come and meet with me and bores me to tears with a story involving the shipment of an illegal menagerie of penguins which I think is supposed to be funny. I laugh for good measure and thank the stars when he's forced to excuse himself to deal with some scuffle out back.

I have Quincy arrange my first session with Isley for the end of that week, at the time when I would usually have Joker's session were he not in a hospital bed. I'm escorted down to maximum security and briefed on what is and what isn't allowed down here. The last time I was down here, I pretty much danced past the guards without a second glance, but since the refurbishments granted by the Wayne funding I have to pass through a metal detector to ensure I'm not bringing anything prohibited into the unit and have my identification card passed through a scanner. When I reach Isley's room, I'm told to remove my shoes encase any pollen is clinging to their soles; I've read from the files that even that would be enough for her to cause trouble, given time.

When I enter all is in darkness. There are no windows; like flora, Isley thrives in the sunlight. I'm told by the guard that they don't feed her, that she's developed the ability to photosynthesise, though I believe he's only teasing. Isley sits waiting at the other side of the table, an ethereal light upon her pale skin. Her hair is impossibly beautiful and falls about her face in thick, almost waist-length barrel curls, the colour of burned caramel. Her hair is a testament to how long she has been locked in this room; the footage of her arrest showed her with a curly bob cut. She is thinner than the footage shows, and sunken shadows cradle beneath her green eyes, not a deep electric green like Joker's, but a pale, soft shade, like calm reedy waters. I offer her my hand as I sit down.

"Hi there, I'm Doctor Harleen. People call me Harley."

"You're not a Doctor," she says, her eyes on my ID badge.

"Well, I'm pretty much a Doctor, anyway. Is it okay if I call you Pam?"

She frowns deeply, not sure what to make of me. "No."

I don't let my smile falter, not this early in the game. "Okie-dokie. How about Pammy?"

Her eyes take on a suspicious glaze. There's a long pause in which she doesn't answer. I brush it off, and instead begin to talk to her about what I hope we'll achieve together. We both know it's all a load of nonsense, but she thinks that I believe in what I'm saying, and that's all that matters. She looks at me like I'm an idiot.

At the end of the session, I'm feeling quite satisfied. I stayed cheery, she stayed quiet. No instant rapport between the pair of us, but none of that really matters. I've still got plenty of time to get things in order. She'll come around.

I head to the Beaumont ward to spend the rest of the afternoon with my delirious other half. I'm met there by one of my least favourite people. I scowl at Bolton as I march to the Joker's door; he seems to have replaced the taller of Joker's two white-clad orderlies. I couldn't wipe the vicious glare from my face if I wanted to.

"You've got some nerve," I say as I come to a halt before the doors. "Standing outside his door like you're protecting him when you and your thugs are the ones who put him in here in the first place."

Lyle rolls his eyes. "It's not him we're protecting, Doctor Quinzel. It's everyone else. And I've got no idea what you're talking about."

"Cut the crap," I demand dryly. "I know they're all covering for you and your boys. It makes me sick to my stomach, knowing that they're all protecting you. But believe me, none of you will _ever_ touch him again."

Lyle is barely even listening, staring over the top of my head as though I'm not even there. "Whatever you say, Harley."

I scowl at his indifference, but I'm not here for him. I'm here for Joker.

When I enter the room I find that Joker is asleep. I take a comb from the wooden chest and brush his hair gently while he sleeps. He looks as peaceful as a tomb. It's hard to imagine a man like him ever sleeps. It isn't becoming on him; he is at his best when his features are alive, with mirth or malice, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of expression. I long for the bruises to heal, ache for the time when he can smile again without wincing.

When he wakes sometime later he tries for one of those unforgettable smiles.

"White everywhere I look and an angel by my side... have I died and gone to heaven?"

I raise my eyebrows and brush his hair back from his pale forehead, checking his temperature. "I don't think Saint Peter will be waiting to greet you at the Pearly Gates, sweetie. Me neither."

"To hell in a hand-basket it is, then," he grins, grasping my hand and pressing a kiss against it. "Sounds much more fun."

When he draws his hand back we find that he's managed to entangle the tube of his cannula with my bracelet; as I struggle to detangle us I tell him of my niggling concerns.

"I haven't heard anything from Frosty over the last few days."

"He's a man of few words and parsecs of patience. I shouldn't worry too much. Why, are you starting to get nervous?" There's a pause. His tone cools. "No turning back now, Harls."

I squirm a little. I don't want to appear weak, but he'll know if I lie.

"...I'm a little nervous."

He chuckles, squeezes my hand. "You'll be fine. In fact, you'll be better than fine, you'll be fantastic. Stick to the plan and everything will be sweet as sugar, Sugar."

"I know, but... I've been thinking. When Frost gives me the call, I'm supposed to-"

"No no, don't bore me with the details," he insists, shaking a dismissive hand, the cannula rattling along with it. "I like an element of surprise. I trust the two of you to have enough brain power between you to pull this thing off."

"But Puddin'-"

"Hey." His hand reaches for mine again, but this time his grip is tight. He pins my wrist to the bed sheet. His eyes are dagger-sharp, his mouth a thin red line. When he speaks, his tone is gravel.

"Who's the boss?"

I squirm a little in my seat uncomfortably.

"You are," I say, looking off to the side. My hand remains still beneath his grip.

"That's right," he says, "I'm the boss. So if I say there's nothing to worry about, that means there's nothing to worry about. Don't mither me."

I nod. He releases my hand one finger at a time, stroking his hand up the length of my forearm and back down before breaking contact. He trails his fingers up the underside of my chin, tilting my head towards him. He smiles.

"Now give your poor old man a kiss."

When the time comes to leave, I make no secret of my disdain for Bolton as I exit.

"Move your fat ass outta my way," I snap, sliding past him and stamping quickly up the corridor. I hear the two orderlies talking as I march to the end of the corridor, pausing at the entrance to sanitize my hands.

"What was all that about?" the other one asks, not quietly, though his voice faint from this distance.

"Oh, don't mind her," Lyle says. I see him twirl a thick finger in a corkscrew motion against his left temple. "She's just as crazy as he is."

~oOo~

"I brought you something," I tell Pamela at the beginning of our third session. I place the thin paperback down on the table, its title facing her. She squints as she reads the cover, then glances up at me with raised eyebrows.

"Really?"

I grin. "Really."

I pick up the copy of _1,000 Side-Splitting Knock-Knock Jokes_ and open it up on a random page. I read through a couple and giggle to myself.

"Oh, this is a good one. Ready? _Knock knock."_

Isley visibly grimaces. "We are not doing this."

"Oh, yes we are."

"This is supposed to be a therapy session."

"And there's no better therapy than laughter. Come on, Pammy, I don't think I've seen a smile from you once so far. Now, let's give it a try- _knock knock."_

She refuses to respond. A minute later I try again; still no response. I resort to reading the voices in goofy accents to distinguish between the two. She leans back in her chair, arms folded, and closes her eyes.

"Knock knock," I say, opening up the book on a random page.

 _"Who's there?"_ I also say.

"To," I answer.

 _"To who?"_

"Tut tut, silly," I reprimand myself. "I think you'll find it's _'to whom.'"_

I grin at Pamela. She stares back blankly.

I try again, reading her another cheesy joke, and another, until eventually I catch a glimmer of a smirk, a taught pull at the corner of her mouth. She purses her lips to hide it away, pretending not to be listening as I recite knock-knock joke after knock-knock joke.

"Knock knock," I begin again. I leave a hopeful pause.

Pamela sighs aloud but eventually relents.

"Who's there?"

"Hugh," I answer, beaming.

"Hugh who?"

 _"Hugh-mungus!"_

For a second her face is completely blank. Then her face contorts momentarily before blossoming into a grin, and she throws her head back, eyes closed, a warm, clear laughter filling the cold grey room. The entire vicinity seems to brighten, and I begin laughing along too, the two of us giggling like schoolgirls either side of the table.

When Pammy composes herself, she is left wiping tears from her eyes.

"Are you sure you're qualified?" she says, still smiling. "I think you're just as nuts as everyone else in here."

"I've got the certs to prove it," I wink, smiling back at her. She's warming up to me in spite of herself. I pick up the small book again and find a joke that sets me giggling before I even read it aloud.

"You'll like this one," I say, beaming. _"Knock knock."_

~oOo~

By the end of the week, there's still been no word from Frost. The anticipation truly is killing me; my sleep pattern becomes worse again, so that I have to rely on pharmacy-brought sleeping aids to help me along, or I'd be constantly dead on my feet. I keep the cell phone Frost gave me on my person at all times, checking its screen every half hour or so in case he has attempted to make contact. Whenever I mention the situation to Joker he only laughs as he did before and talks about how he trusts Frost's capabilities. With less than two weeks to go before Hugo Strange's arrival, I'm not quite so confident.

Joker is looking better. They've started strapping him to his cot, though, because a healthy Joker is a hectic Joker, and no one here wants to deal with that. I haven't told him about Quincy's plans to have him lobotomized. He's suffering enough without worrying about such things, and I've no idea how he'd react, or if he'd keep quiet on the matter; Sharp's blind co-operation depends on him believing that I'm one-hundred per cent on board with his deranged plan, and I can't risk that being compromised.

That weekend, I convince myself that I need to take action, so I get all dressed up, draw $60 out of the bank and head on down to the Iceberg Lounge. If he's still sticking to Joker's regular orders, Frost should be there. When I get to the front of the long line, I find that the doormen will not take my money. They address me as Miss Quinn, and let me straight through. _That must be Ozzy's doing,_ I decide. Sure enough, when I step through the doors, I find Mr. Cobblepot waiting to greet me. He looks a little flustered and has clearly just received the call that I've appeared on his doorstep. He kisses me on both cheeks like we've known each other all our lives and hands me a glass of champagne, which he loudly announces is Dom Pérignon.

"Is Frost here?" I ask, glancing around the gaggle of well-to-dos and socialites. I half expect to see Nightwing here again, but the coast seems relatively clear.

"No sign of him yet, Harley. But not to worry, he's probably just running late. Take a seat up by the bar and my girls will let you know when he turns up."

I thank him and head to my regular seat, greeting Candy and Selina as I go. Candy scurries over and asks about the champagne; when I tell her what it is she eyes it enviously.

"You're a lucky girl," she says, brushing her hair back. "A bottle of that stuff comes in at triple digits."

I swill a mouthful of the stuff around my mouth and swallow it back with a grimace.

"Doesn't matter what price they put on it, it still tastes like piss," I tell her jokingly, and hold it out to her. "I'll do you a swap for one of those masterpieces you whipped up for me last time."

Her face blooms into a wide smile and she scurries away to make another one of the masterpieces, sipping $200-dollar champagne as she goes. I watch her work, and it's clear she loves her job; there's a certain artistry to making cocktails, that much is clear. She returns with her own spin on the classic mojito, blossoming with mint leaves and crushed ice. I accept it gratefully and she talks with me for a long while in between serving costumers.

Two hours and four cocktails later there's still no word from Frost. I ask Candy to make the next cocktail virgin, as I don't want the booze getting to my head. Things are getting a little rowdy even this side of the club, though it's a merry, older-sort of drunken atmosphere than that of the golden whirlwind behind just beyond the corridor. Couples spin on the dancefloor with clumsy, giggly steps, falling into one another's arms as they twirl to the music of the live band. Singles drift about the outskirts of the dance floor waiting to be approached, or take a seat at the bar and lose themselves in tall drinks. One such single sinks down into the seat beside me as Candy works the other end of the bar. He's perhaps a handful of years younger than me. I pretend not to have noticed him, feeling where things are about to go, but he has no intention of going unnoticed.

"What's up, gorgeous? You look fantastic tonight. Let me buy you a drink."

"I buy my own drinks, thanks. Besides, I'm still finishing my Woo Woo."

"Ooh, sourpuss. I get it, you're the strong independent type. That's okay, I like that. How's about I let you buy me a drink instead?"

I'm unsure yet whether he's drunk or just an asshole. I sigh aloud, taking another long sip of my drink.

"Not tonight, hot stuff. I'm taken."

"Hmm..." His hand trails across the bar, comes to a rest on my leg. "How about tomorrow night, you still taken then?"

I smack his hand away briskly. "Keep walking, creep. Walk far enough and you might just do us all a favour and walk right off a cliff."

He's a little taken aback by that, and hisses through his teeth before calling me a foul name. "You're pig-ugly anyway-"

I beam back at him. "Then why the hell'dya try talking to me in the first place, huh?"

He flares his nostrils. "Have you got any idea who I am-?!"

Suddenly he lets out a yelp. I jump a little, then see that Selina has appeared behind him, an empty tray of glasses balancing on her shoulder, a four-inch stiletto driven down into his foot.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr Franz. Didn't see you there."

He curses aloud, calls her a bitch. Tracey grinds her heel into his shiny black semi-brogues and he squeals. She leans in closer and warns him off.

"Believe me, sunshine, I'm doing you a favour. Count yourself lucky that her demented boyfriend isn't around. Scram while you still can."

"My uncle-!"

"Yeah yeah yeah, we all know who you are, Paris. Now go on, hobble back to his booth before I get the boys to drag you out of here."

He goes, muttering under his breath and limping on his wounded foot. Once he's disappeared back into the crowd, I thank Selina. She blows a feathering of dark hair from her sharp face.

"No problem, Harley. We girls gotta stick up for each other, right? Besides, from what I hear you'll be a regular soon enough."

I smile shyly. "Word travels fast around here, huh."

"Fast as a bullet. Can't say I understand it myself, but each to their own. See ya."

I remember the way Candy instantly sprang when Nightwing approached me last time I sat at this bar. I wonder if it's for my own sake or Joker's that they are so quick to shoot down any man who comes near me.

Candy deposits a tray of empty flutes on the bar. "We've just had the call through- Mr. Frost is here. Come on, I'll take you out back."

We head down the corridor, weave through the glittering madness of the mirror club and straight to Frost's booth. As we move through the crowded club, I learn just how fast word travels in the underworld- there are whispers of _that's her, the Quinn girl, she's the one_ , though whispering over the loud bass music is more like shouting. Everywhere I move I hear _Quinn, Quinn, Harley Quinn._

I sit down opposite Frost and get straight to the point.

"We've got just over a week before Strange arrives to buzz Joker's brains out. Don't you think you oughta be getting a move on with this master plan?"

Frost looks unphased. He has a drink with him tonight, something thick and dark. I wonder if that means he's as stressed as I am.

"Relax. If this Doctor Strange shows any signs of becoming a problem, I'll have him removed from the picture."

I fold my arms agitatedly. "Can't you just hurry things up?"

"It takes time to find the right men for the job. I'm sure you need a little more time to secure your end of the deal, too."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I say, somewhat accusingly. "You're what's got me worried. A whole week with no contact..."

"You knew where to find me," he interrupts. "You do your job, and I'll do mine."

I cross my arms tighter. We talk a little while longer, finalising things and discussing possible outcomes. When we're both more at ease with one another, I ask him a candid question.

"Why do you still do this? Joker's been locked in the asylum for the best part of a decade, and you're still here twice a month taking his orders. You're his only solid link to the outside world, and you're in control of his assets. I imagine they're quite abundant, after all the years he ran this city. Most men would have left the clown out to dry years ago."

He clears his throat. Perhaps the alcohol has lowered his guard a little, as he decides to answer me.

"I started off as a getaway driver. A no-one from nowhere. Joker took a liking to me, saw smarts, potential. Now here I am."

I nod, surprised that a man in Johnny Frost's position could ever have been considered a no-one. "Here you are. Rags to riches. So you're saying you feel like you owe him?"

There's a subtle change in his demure and he leans ever so closer, his tone lowered by a fraction of an octave.

"It's something more. I've seen him weak, I've seen him at his worse."

I nod in agreement, letting him know that I understand. "So have I."

He looks doubtful. Clearly, he doesn't share my feeling of comradery. "I'd be surprised if you have. I know him much better than you do, Miss Quinzel."

That surprises me a little. _It isn't a competition,_ I want to say. _Even if it was, I'd still win._

"He loves me," I say.

"All the more reason if that's true. He's trying to impress you, and the rest of the world. All of you only see what he wants you to see. He doesn't bother with any theatrics with me, firstly because he doesn't care what I think and secondly because he knows I'd never tell a soul. Loyalty, Miss Quinzel. That's what it all comes down to."

"I'm loyal," I tell him. He frowns.

"Would you die for him?"

I swallow, hard. "Yes."

"That isn't enough," he tells me, leaning back. He summons a dancer to fetch him another drink. "I wouldn't. He knows that, and he respects it. You'll find that Joker appreciates honesty, though he's not an advocate of it himself. I'm the only one in his ranks who he's never laid a finger on because he knows that I'd be out of the door. Joker likes to test boundaries. He pushes people purely to see if they'll push back, and they hardly ever do, because they're all terrified of him. That's how he gets people. But there are boundaries that I force upon him, that I refuse to let him push. I do whatever he asks without question, but he knows that I would never walk blindly into anything."

One of the things he's said surprises me most. "You aren't scared of him?"

"Of him? No, Miss Quinzel. I'm scared of the things he can do. There aren't many people who really understand what Joker is capable of. There are things I've seen that I would never tell a soul. When you've been around Joker as long as I have you come to understand certain things. There is no running."

He pauses. "You think you know him. You don't. But give it time; you'll learn."

He says it like its a bad thing. I'm not too sure either way.

I have Candy call me a taxi then leave the club. As I'm heading out the door, I hear Oswald call after me. I turn back to him, smiling lightly. An oily grin appears on his face.

"Tell J I've kept his booth empty, and his favourite's waiting on ice."

"He'll appreciate that," I call back with a wave. "Have a great night, Ozzy."


	21. Chapter Twenty: The Woman in Red

**Chapter Twenty:**

 **The Woman in Red**

"Checkmate," Gags says, knocking Jeremiah's King from the board with a satisfied smirk. The rest of Joker's goons around us congratulate him on his win as Jeremiah picks up the scattered pieces.

"No it was not," Jerry says, annoyed, "you can't make that move, it's completely against the rules. Look, Gagsworthy, I'll show you. A rook can't move diagonally-"

"Ah, don't be such a sore loser, Jerry," Gags says, going back to his meal, which he's been picking at since the game began. Jeremiah frowns. I don't know much about chess- well, nothing at all, really- but I'd be willing to bet that Jeremiah's in the right.

He has been teaching the game to the group of Joker's ex-goons with little success over the last couple of weeks, though with nothing else to do, the group are quite keen on learning. They've adopted Jeremiah into their little group since learning that he, like myself, has plenty of stories to tell of their enamoured boss. It makes me happy seeing that he's found himself a place in amongst this freak-show, however odd that place might be.

"Oh, give it up, Doc. Just because I'm getting better than you now at your own game."

There's no reasoning with Gags over the ordeal; eventually, Jeremiah gives up. I pull one of Gagsworthy's pieces from the board and wipe ketchup from it using my napkin; twenty minutes of going between eating and moving chess pieces with only one hand has left them soiled with grease and other residue. I toss the soiled napkin away with a grimace.

"You always manage to make a mess of things, Gags," I say teasingly, though not unkindly. Gags scowls, no doubt remembering his failed attempt at bringing me in.

"Watch what you say to me, Quinzel."

I gnash my teeth at him and steal a handful of french fries from his tray. "Bite me, ginger."

I throw in a wink for good measure. Gags sees little humour in the situation. I know he only puts up with my presence because I can offer updates on Joker's condition in the hospital- hell, he treats the snippets of Joker's progress I throw his way like a hit of heroin- but I know a couple of the other goons like it when I come and have my lunch here in the cafeteria with them. Still, Gags is the top dog at this table, and I doubt I'd be welcomed were it not for my connection to the clown.

Word comes from Alyce Sinner that there have been complications with Dr. Strange's transfer, giving Frost another week to get things into action. The news put my mind at ease a little over the past week, but even that's cutting it a little close to the jugular. I'm constantly on edge, just waiting for the call. The other staff members herald me as a saint for offering to come in every day. This is, of course, so that I don't miss the call to arms when it eventually comes, but it's assumed that I'm doing it to cover some of the many open shifts left by those who were killed on April Fools day, as well as those still claiming bereavement and those staff members with a bit of sense who decided to quit and find work somewhere less terminal. Some of them even start talking to me again, offering to pull me coffee's or bothering to say good morning when we pass by in the halls. It's all a little too late, I hate to say.

Far too late.

I swallow down the last of my stolen french fries. When I zone back into the conversation, I find that Gags and Jerry are having an altercation over the meaning of the word _'interchangeable'._ Once again, unsurprisingly, Jeremiah is in the right, but no amount of reasoning could ever dissuade Gagsworthy that anyone except Joker could be more in the right than him.

There's a vibration from my pocket. I shouldn't have my cell on me when I'm around the patients, but I don't tend to listen to the rules much these days.

I check my phone screen beneath the table and find that there are no new alerts; it clicks then, like a bullet in a chamber, and my insides begin to bubble as I scramble for my second phone.

Frost's cell, fully charged as I'd promised to keep it, has lit up to life for the first time since it was given to me. The screen reads,

 _1 new message. Sender unknown._

Nervousness and excitement fight for dominance within me as I open the message. It's simple, but tells me all I need to know;

 _Tomorrow's the day. Be prepared._

 _-JF_

After a while I recognise that Jeremiah is calling my name. I look up at him with what must be a worrying expression, as he looks a little taken aback.

"Harley, are you alright?"

I pocket the phone again, compose myself, and smile.

"Never better."

When I tell Joker about Frost's message that afternoon he laughs and says that it's about time. He sits up a little straighter now, and the bruises on his face have lost almost all of their colour, his alabaster perfection so close to being returned. He looks almost like his old self again, much to my great relief. The medical team maintain that Joker inflicted his injuries himself; I've stopped arguing about it with them. None of that matters now, anyway. Tomorrow it will all be over. _Tick tock, tick tock._

That night when I get home from the Iceberg Lounge I write a letter to my parents, explaining preemptively why I've done what I have. It's nothing but honesty, a stream of my consciousness; I cry throughout, and the three-page letter is stained with tears. I tell them things I should have told them long ago. I read through the letter once it's finished to ensure that I've said everything that needs to be said.

Then I realise;

It reads like a suicide note.

I tear the letter up quickly and do not write another one.

~oOo~

The next sun rises. I wake to a message from Frost reminding me to wait for his word before doing anything. I walk to work, taking a leisurely stroll through the Iron Sister's Park on the way. I arrive at Arkham as expected to cover one of the hollow shifts, with a backpack rather than my usual handbag. I store it in my locker and head down to eat breakfast with Jeremiah, Gagsworthy and the others. I am quieter than usual, Jeremiah notes, but does not pry. I put my hand on top of his beneath the table and give it a gentle squeeze before heading off to do the mid-morning check-ups. I keep the phone from Frost in my breast pocket for the easiest access.

The text arrives after lunch, at exactly 2:47 PM. I bat away the butterflies in my stomach before opening it to read Frost's message:

 _It's time to let the Jack out of the box. You know what to do._

 _Good luck,_

 _-JF_

I read the message four times over before getting to my shaky legs and excusing myself from my duties to head back to the shared office and collect the backpack. I pull the thing onto my shoulder and slip away to the custodian's quarters. I knock politely and the scruffy custodian comes to the door, not working, as usual. He doesn't know my name but nods as though he recognises me.

"Hiya," I smile sweetly, shifting the backpack a little. "I don't suppose you've got some bleach I can borrow? The cleaner up on the section I'm working hasn't come in today and no one knows the combination to her cleaning closet, and one of the patients has just... well, I won't go into details, but let's just say that disinfecting the floors is the very least that needs to be done."

He chuckles dryly and disappears further inside. I follow after him, making idle chatter until I'm close enough to bring the cloth in my hand about his face and hold it firmly there until he stops struggling. I guide his limp form to the ground and leave him there, the cloth still over his mouth, opening the door to his small office and taking a seat.

Before me sits a cluttered desk, covered in odds and ends. I plug a USB drive into the surveillance computer and follow the instructions presented on screen, just as Frost told me to; the device begins to download or upload or whatever the hell it's designed to do, and pretty soon informs me that it's finished it's task.

The screen changes to show a grid with each of the Asylum's various sectors; the hospital, the mansion, Joker's empty unit, and the rest. I double-click on _Maximum Security._ A new grid appears, this time with tiny labels in the corner of each square, naming the entrance and various corridors and the names of each patient held down there, indicating their rooms. Each square is dark grey, with a black 'X' running from corner to corner.

Frost's cell buzzes in my pocket. I open the message to see that it's all going according to plan.

 _Cameras are down. Get to work._

I pull a face at the screen. _Would it kill him to at least say thanks?_ I brush it off; truth is, there's not a moment to lose. I take the custodian's keys from his desk and head for the door, locking his unconscious form inside.

I take the elevator down to level 0, the maximum security floor. A wise move, as it's difficult for Arkham's most notorious to escape when they're buried underground. I greet the guard running the security frontier today, whose name is Larry. He's a nice guy; has a wife called Pauline, a soft-spot for key-lime pie and, in spite of his questionable physique, coaches little league on Sunday afternoons. I explain that I'm here to see my patient; he doesn't ask any questions, knowing me from previous sessions, and asks me to step through the metal detector. Unsurprisingly, I beep.

"Oh, great," I say, with a faux-nervous laugh. "I must have a metal hip I don't know about, the number of times I beep when I go through these things."

He stands from his desk, a little uncomfortably. "Uh, I'll have to search you, Doctor Quinzel. It's the rules, just a pat down. I can call over to Cash and have him send over a female officer, if you'd like...?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Larry," I say, assuming the position with my arms held out wide. "I think we know each other well enough for this."

He nods along, coming forward and beginning to pat down my arms. As he does I slip the cloth from my sleeve and quickly move it against his mouth, planting a kiss on his forehead as he slips into unconsciousness in the same way as the custodian did.

"Sweet dreams," I say, swiping my backpack from the scanning machine and heading through to the cell block. A guard sits just inside the steel doors, half-asleep but just awake enough to keep an eye on things and to jump when I enter. I don't leave him time for any more response as I press my knee down across his thighs to prevent him from standing and hold a freshly saturated rag to his mouth, watching his eyes swim through panic then blankness as he slips away. _I'm getting pretty good at this already,_ I think, taking his electronic key card and using it to open up the door to the cell. I take it inside with me, leaving the door open.

Pamela is surprised by my sudden appearance, which comes as no surprise to me. I find her sitting atop the small bolted table which we use in our sessions, sat in the centre of the stream of light which now dazzles through the skylight; I convinced Quincy to have the guards remove the paneling, told him that it was vital in achieving her co-operation and making Pamela feel as though we are willing to be reasonable, or at least lenient. It's only been a few days since I saw her last, and the exposure to the sunlight has already improved her appearance drastically; her curls now shine like polished copper, her skin is a blushed, greenish tone. Her figure seems fuller and supple, her face no longer sunken. She looks at me with wide, glowing green eyes.

"Hey, Pammy," I say, drawing out the seat on my side of the table and sitting myself down. She uncurls herself from the table in one cautious, fluid motion. She is naked. She doesn't seem to be embarrassed; she has no reason to be.

"It isn't our session time," she points out.

"I know, I know. But I've been thinking of you all day, and I just couldn't help dropping by. When I was on my way to work I took a walk through-"

"-The park under the Iron Sister's bridge," she finishes for me, acutely aware. "There are fern spores clinging to the legs of your tights, and pollen from the blossoms." She breathes in deeply.

"You can feel that?" I ask, thrown off from my course by the revelation.

"I feel everything. I feel the roots of the old oaks moving beneath the foundations of the asylum. I smell the last of the tulips budding in the gardens. I can hear apples falling from their mothers in orchards miles away. They call out to me."

"That's beautiful," I tell her.

"Yes," she says. "I think so, too."

I open up the backpack.

"Anyway, like I was saying..." I sneeze in the middle of my sentence. "…Sorry. I took a nice long walk through the park beneath the Iron Sisters' bridge on my way here. It's beautiful under there at this time of year, as I'm sure you know. Everything's in bloom, all blossoms and bumble bees. But I'm telling you, the pollen really gets to my- _achoo!-_ allergies."

She watches me carefully as I search the bag.

"The blossom never lasts long," I lament, finding what I'm looking for. "I know I really shouldn't, but…"

I take a large sprig of candyfloss-pink blossom from the backpack and place it down on the table in front of her.

Pamela stares at it, stunned, as though she cannot believe that it is real. A cruel joke, like the synthetic roses she's told me that the guards put in her room on occasion. She looks up to me. I'm still smiling.

"...It was just too beautiful for you to miss."

She touches her hand out to the flowers before her, and I hear her let out a feathery sigh. She is close to tears; she draws the blossom close to her chest, breathing in the sweet summery smell, touching the delicate pink petals to her face. She stays like that for a moment, just reveling in the perfection of the sweet, though slightly battered, buds.

And then something incredible begins to happen. Her fingers move ever so slightly, and the browning pink leaves begin to bloom with life anew, the petals curling and becoming full and more beautiful than before. The tendrils of the blossom's stalk begin to extend, curling their way up Pamela's bare arm like a living thing, growing outwards and downwards in the sunlight at an incredible speed; I stand in amazement as the multiplying flowers begin to spread their way across the floor, thousands of the tiny pink buds growing then blooming one by one into a soft pink carpet, puckering beneath my feet and winding in and out of my heels. When the flowers reach the edge of the room, they begin to grow up the walls, and when they reach the zenith of the walls, they begin to grow across the ceiling, surrounding the skylight. I stare in awe as a gentle storm of loosened petals begin to fall now that the work is done, dancing about the two of us in a perfumed haze.

I look back to Isley. She is no longer naked, her pea-green body now decorated instead with living, breathing blossoms, covering her breasts and legs in a beautiful organic dance. The smell of the room is hypnotic, overwhelming. I want to say something, but find myself incapable of finding words.

Isley raises a delicate hand and the blossoms about my feet begin to climb. They scramble rapidly up my body, a thick rope which accumulates about my throat in a constricting necklace; Isley curls the fingers of her hand and the braid begins to tighten, pulling the air from my lungs and causing me to struggle. I try to pull the vines from my neck to little avail, staring down at her as the flowers lift me a little from the ground.

"Why?" she asks. I scramble against the vines, look her in the eyes.

I don't answer her. Only smile.

After a few moments her eyes soften a fraction. She studies me, unsure of what to make of the strange woman before her. She loosens her fingers and the blossoms begin to unwind from about my throat. I gasp for air as the gentle petals recede, managing to stop myself from falling by grabbing hold of the tabletop. I stumble back into the doorway, straightening myself and watching her with an open expression. my heels sinking into the impenetrable carpet of blossom.

Pamela shakes her head, still torn. She raises both arms and the blossoms begin to twist and writhe again, creeping across the skylight and burying her in a dark, reddish glow.

"Go," she says, her voice worn and dark. "Leave."

I turn quickly but throw her a wink as I prepare to scramble away.

"Go crazy, Red."

Her hands spasm in a swift, sporadic motion. I see the quick of a smile as the glass shatters overhead as the blossoms begin to break through the skylight.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One: Dangerous Freaks

**Chapter Twenty-One:**

 **Dangerous Freaks**

As I leave the facility I see that the other patients down in max have been alerted to the sounds of chaos, and are pressing themselves to their small windows to try and discover the cause. I give one or two of them a wave as I pass by; the sounds coming from Isley's room are audible now, the creaking of escalating branches and scrambling vines. The inmates begin to slam on their doors and holler, seeing the vines begin to creep down the corridor.

In the foyer, I find that the guard on security is beginning to rouse. I bend to his level and press the rag to his face once more, sitting beside him until he drifts away again. I push the button on his monitor to let myself out of maximum security, only to find that the guard from the cell block has stumbled upon consciousness and now stands, wavering, bracing himself against the metal detecting arch.

"What do you think you're doing?" he slurs, his eyes struggling to focus. I approach quickly, take hold of the side of his head and slam his forehead off the wall of the archway, rendering him unconscious once more. I let him fall to the floor and hop over his outstretched arm. The floor beneath me begins to rumble and I make haste in getting out of there, abandoning the backpack as I go. I pull out Frost's phone, reading the message on the screen.

 _Looks like things have gone according to plan. Heading over to the office, k_ _eep Sharp sweet. When they evacuate we'll move in._

The shaking can be felt in the upper levels of the building, too; there are panicked patients and whispers of _earthquake_ everywhere as I head for the entrance, and each ward phone I pass is occupied with staff members trying to contact the higher-ups. By the time I reach Quincy's office he's already been informed of the situation and is stood in the foyer addressing a crowd of panicking staff members. He is flustered, barely holding it together as he assures everyone that it's nothing to worry about, that it will pass momentarily. A nervous nurse spills into the corridor, yelling that there are living plants breaking their way through the flooring and scrambling through the wards. Almost everyone looks at her as though she is an escaped patient, but those who know of Isley and her abilities turn as white as a sheet.

"Evacuate the building," Quincy says. "Move all of the patients out of here and someone call the police."

I offer to do so as others call over to the unit which houses the maximum security facility, though I'm sure that with plants tearing their way through the ward people have already made it their mission to get the hell out. I look out of a window which overlooks the courtyard; sure enough, it is already filling with nurses and patients, many of the latter who are lashing out, the staff members just as distressed. I pretend to make the call to the cops, informing the imaginary operator of what's happening in a dramatic, panicky voice, whilst the Warden slips back into his office. I follow after him and find him and a handful of doctors struggling to pull up the CCTV footage of the facility on the monitors; for reasons only I and Frost know, none of the cameras are working.

"What the hell is going on here?!" someone yells, but no one has an answer.

"How the hell could she even have got out?" Quincy says, slamming his hand down on the desk in anguish. He reaches for the tanner system and heralds an announcement to every building in the asylum, informing the staff that we are going into lock-down until the police arrive. That means no one in, no one out. Including me.

And this time, I want out. For good.

Someone questions how on earth we are going to extract the other prisoners down in maximum security; Quincy's expression tell us that we won't be.

"We're not equipped to be moving those monsters," he says, "we'll leave that to the police. We don't have anywhere else which can contain them regardless. If we tried we'd fail, and then we'd just have more dangerous freaks running wild and adding to the mess."

"Have you seen the building?! It's covered in vines already! They'll be breaking out of their cells, this is a disaster, Quincy, a total disaster!"

Quincy begins instructing the other doctors to clear the people from the courtyard and try to maintain order until the GCPD arrive. Once they've cleared the room, I hang back.

"Lockdown?" I question loudly, nerves rising in me again, "that isn't enough, Quincy! The GCPD isn't equipped to handle someone like Isley, you know that. If she's got out, you need to evacuate the whole asylum."

"When the police arrive we'll begin moving everyone out safely-"

"Isley could rip the place apart by then!" I tell him, "you've seen the footage, you know what she can do!"

We argue back and forth about whether evacuation is necessary or not. He needs to evacuate; Frost's plan depends upon it. The asylum will be evacuated, and Frost and his boys will intercept Joker quietly in the ensuing chaos. Joker will be gone before anyone even knows it, with me in tow. With little left to argue, still not getting through to Sharp, I decide to play a risky card.

"It's bigger than just Isley," I tell him, leaning over his desk and showing him the security monitor, flicking from one sector of the asylum to the next. Black screen after black screen is shown. "It has to be. Someone's taken out the cameras, all of them. This isn't just a freak incident, It's an organised attack."

"Why would someone want Isley freed?"

I shrug. "I don't know. But they've taken out every camera; to me that says they've got something else planned. Something bigger. And I've got no intentions of sticking around to find out what."

Quincy looks horror-stricken. I know then that I've won. He takes a minute to compose himself before pulling a folder from one of the mahogany shelves and finding the evacuation procedure. He sits back down, pulling the microphone towards him and reading the instructions to the staff members over the intercom in a shaky voice. Quincy reads through the evacuation procedure once more, and once he's finished and reassured everyone not to panic, he checks the window for any sign of the cops; as I haven't made the call and we are isolated on an island from the rest of the city, there's no sign of them yet. He picks up his work cell and makes a call, asking whoever answers to put him on to Bolton. I'm instantly alert, a fluttering in my chest, listening hard.

"Lyle, it's the Warden. Listen to me, I need you to stay there with the clown. I don't want him moved, it's too risky, he can't be trusted. The last thing we need is him getting loose in the chaos... yes, I understand that. Yes, I'll send Cash over with some men. The police will be here shortly, just hold on until then. I'll send them straight to you. Alright. Goodbye."

He hangs up, making the call to the head of security before I have the chance to make any protest. I message Frost in a panic. I don't get an immediate response as before. I listen as Quincy arranges for Cash to take three more men over there to secure Joker in the ward; the second he hangs up I strike.

"What the hell are you doing?! You can't leave him in here, it isn't safe!"

"The last thing we need is to be transferring the clown, I won't risk it."

"You're compromising his safety for the sake of-!"

The phone in my hand beeps. I stare down at the screen.

 _Get over to the ward NOW._

 _-JF_

I swallow hard and stand from my seat.

"Harley? Where are you going?"

I don't answer. He moves between the door and me, blocking my way and holding up his hands in a concerned manner.

"Move outta my way, old man," I tell him. "I'm going down there."

"You can't go to him! Stay here until the police arrive, where it's safe. Let the orderlies deal with him."

"Your orderlies are a bunch of meatheads, they couldn't contain a fart in a tupperware box, never mind keep Joker under lock and key. I'm the only one who knows how to deal with him. I can talk to him, you know I'm the only one-"

"Why do you still want to help him?!" he says in anguish, "after everything he's done to the pair of us! Our families-!"

"Oh, always the damn family!" I cry, "ain't there nothing else you ever think about?!"

There's a flicker of anger, and something that looks like hurt. I feel the weight of the phone in my hand. _I don't have time for this._ "Get out of my way, Sharp!"

"You can't help him-!"

"He doesn't need help!" I scream, "not from this place, not from Doctors! Don't you get it?! After all this time? Are you really that _dumb?!"_

Something in him grinds to a halt. He eyes me questioningly.

"…What are you saying?"

I can't help but smile back at him. I throw out my hands, a gesture of surrender.

"Figure it out, genius."

It takes him a long moment, a moment which I can't afford to lose. I shove past him and pull open the mahogany doors, but as I go to step out into the corridor, he grabs at my arm with a deathly grip.

"You're _helping_ him?!"

"Get offa me-!"

"You've done this, Harley?! Isley and the cameras and-?!"

"I told you to _let go!"_

I shove him, hard. Hard enough to force him back into the room, for him to lose his grip on my arm. Hard enough for him to snap back into the heavy wooden bookshelf holding binder upon binder filled with staff records and performance reviews, years and years of Arkham's history bound and filed and neatly packaged away. Hard enough for him to smack his head against one of the shelves, and hard enough for the whole mahogany unit to come tumbling down upon him with a tremendous crash.

Quincy Sharp lies still, buried beneath folders and shelving, his arm protruding from the rubble at a disjointed, unnatural angle. He is face-down, and there is a blooming of blood amassing around his bald white head. He looks like a broken egg, lying there.

 _And all the king's horses and all the king's men…_

I start running. I do not check the man for a pulse or lack of one, too scared that doing so will confirm the latter to be the reality, and make the title Joker gave me true; _Murderer._

All the ghosts of Arkham chase me through that hall. Joan Leeland, a bullet wound in her head and her body broken, stumbling over her sensible shoes in an attempt to catch up with me. The man Jeremiah Arkham once was runs alongside her, snarling like a feral animal, angry, hungry for what was stolen from him, a one-eared Frederick and the orderly whose name I never took the time to learn flanking him. A young blonde intern in faux glasses shuffles nervously after them all, trying to ensure that her heels do not leave any marks as they make contact with the linoleum floor.

They lose my trail as I break out into the courtyard. I'm stopped dead in my tracks by the sheer sight of the unit which houses the maximum security patients in its basement.

Patients and staff still scurry about left and right, the main courtyard filled with evacuees being bundled into buses, registers being taken, though no one can truly concentrate, all too terrified by the sight before them; the unit which once caged Pamela Isley has been ripped apart, great chunks of its roof torn away, twisting roots protruding from its tiles and writhing around in an unnatural manner. In amongst the huge old roots flourish millions of pink blossoms, budding and blooming at unbelievable speeds, changing size and shape and tone like a kaleidoscope. There's no sign of Isley herself, but there is no mistaking the fact that the old building now belongs to her and mother nature alone. Perhaps they are one in the same.

I've no time to dwell on the happenings here, though. I push my way through the madness to the rear of the asylum buildings, an area far less populated by panic. I hear the sound of gunfire coming from around the corner where the rear entrance to the hospital lies, and find myself doing the unimaginable by running towards it.

Sure enough, I find that my pursuit was not in vain. A group of six men, dressed in an array of odd outfits from patterned pyjamas to stolen GCPD uniforms, are trying various methods to break through the Wayne Tech security. There are two dead guards in the vicinity. One or two more goons are rifling through the back of a small open truck which they've clearly used to storm the gates. I approach cautiously, hands in the air, holding my lanyard above my head. The men stop their assault upon the doors, turning to me. I see hands resting steadily upon guns.

"Hey boys," I say with an uncomfortable grin. "Uh, don't shoot me. Here, try this."

I toss my lanyard with my pass towards the man closest to me. He catches it, examines it for a moment, then swipes it across the sensor beside the doors. They slide open with a mechanical whirl, leaving the pathway open. The men look back to me, perhaps confused.

"I'm Harley," I try to explain, "does, uh... does that mean anything to any of you?"

The other two goons pull their way out of the back of the truck. One of them wears a sharp suit with rubber welder's gear over it, complete with a mask and a rifle strapped to his back. In his hands, he holds a huge circular electric saw, which I doubt even Wayne Tech's technology would have stood a chance against. He lifts the welder's mask from his face, revealing that he is Johnny Frost. It looks odd, the mask and thick rubber gloves paired with his typically sharp suit. There's a glint in his eye which I've never seen before, something like excitement.

"Miss Quinzel," he says, his voice enthused, the curve of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "Glad we didn't have to force our way inside. The building has been all but emptied, but no sign of Joker. We're going in. Glad you could make it."

"Did I do everything right?"

"You did it beautifully."

"Aw, shucks. I spoke with Sharp, his plan was... is.. to leave Joker until the police arrive."

Frost shrugs. "We'll go to him, then. Lead the way."

I direct the gang through the Elizabeth Ward and across to the Beaumont unit. I feel somewhat indestructible, with this gaggle of oddly-dressed warriors by my side, all following my lead. They belong to Frost, of course, who in turn belongs to Joker... but Joker and I belong to each other, so what we have we share.

I guide the troop of armed misfits through the abandoned sanatorium, devoid of all patients and staff. A wave of determination crashes upon me. I walk with cold purpose but inside I'm short-circuiting, flitting from one emotion to another; fear, paranoia, giggling elation. After so long waiting for this, festering in panic and imagining everything falling apart, I'm so relieved that it's going ahead almost without a hitch. There's something empowering about knowing that things are no longer weighing on my shoulders, that there are no more decisions to be made. There is no going back, and while that's terrifying, it's also exhilarating.

Impulsively I turn to frost and ask, "Can I have a gun?"

He glances in my direction. "Have you ever fired a gun?"

"Yeah!" I say, all of my inhibitions melting in the face of the adrenaline, "I shot someone in the head. I mean, granted the gun was to her temple and it was already loaded…"

"Then no, you can not have a gun."

"Aww, _come on,_ it's not like I'm gonna kill anyone."

"Then you've no reason to have a gun in the first place."

I shrug my shoulders. "It looks cool!"

"A gun isn't supposed to _'look cool'._ It's supposed to end the existence of anyone who stands in your way. It is a weapon and shouldn't be treated like a fashion accessory."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're a real downer, you know that?"

When we enter the Elizabeth unit, there are still a few staff members struggling to wheel their patients out. Frost fires two shots into the ceiling, telling everyone to scarper. One or two of the nurses and orderlies are so terrified that they leave their patients strapped to their beds in the corridors in their haste to escape. In other rooms we pass by I see nurses frozen still, or crouching behind furniture. No one makes a scene, so no one gets hurt.

I lead the gang to Joker's room; through the perspex doors, we see that Bolton and the other orderly are struggling to strap Joker down in his bed.

"Cash and his boys'll be here any minute," Bolton is reassuring the other man, elbowing Joker across the face as he struggles to tie him into a muzzle, "if we can just get him ready for transfer-"

I open the door and clear my throat. The two orderlies freeze, turn in my direction. Their eyes glaze over the men gathering either side of me, their guns raised.

"Okay, boys," I say to the pair, folding my arms. "This is your cue to get out of here."

Lyle narrows his eyes. "What the hell are you doing, Harley?"

I gesture to the men either side of me, blow a bubble. "What does it look like?"

"I _knew_ it," Lyle spits. He points a finger at me. "Always knew there was something off about you."

Frost's minion cocks his gun. Bolton stares down the barrel, uneasily, his words falling away. I smile. Lyle's face contorts.

"You won't get away with this," the second orderly says. I feather my fingers through my hair.

"Well I don't know about you, but this looks a lot like getting away with it to me. If I were you I'd be more concerned about getting the hell out of here while you still can."

Two of the thugs move forwards to help them along, the larger of the two pulling Lyle forwards.

"Move it, big man," the goon barks. "You're lucky she's going soft on you. We'd have just blown your God-damn head off."

"A-a-ah," I sing, staying my fingers lightly against Bolton's chest as he moves to pass by me. "No one said anything about going easy on Lyle here. You're not walking out of here easy-peasy. After what you did to my Puddin' you'll be lucky if you're walking anywhere at all."

Lyle growls. "Screw you Quinzel! You're nuts!"

"Hey," the man holding him says, squeezing his shoulder in warning. Lyle shrugs from his grip; I can see that he wants to say something more, is desperate to have the last word. The armed men around him dissuade him. I look over his shoulder to where Joker lies still.

"What do you think, Mr. J?"

Joker has wriggled one arm free of the rushed restraints. He extends his hand in imitation of a Caesar and gives a pointed thumbs down.

I grit my teeth. "Sorry, Lyle. Looks like this is the end of the road for you."

Bolton Rams his elbow back into the face of the man holding him, knocking him back, then shoves me out of the way and makes a run for the exit. As I keel in the doorway I see Frost and his men draw their guns and begin firing after Bolton, who manages to evade the assault and dart from the ward.

"Get after him," Frost demands of one of his men.

"Give him hell!" I add, straightening myself out and heaving a breath. The moment the goon has gone After Bolton I head over to Joker. He's agitated, strapped down the board and muzzled, lying still, his dark eyes staring up at the ceiling. In their haste to get him subdued, the two orderlies have left him on an awkward angle, his feet crushed up against the cabinet, a shoulder pressed to the wall.

"Hey Puddin'," I say, trailing my fingers over the straps and unlacing them one by one. He stays still throughout, his eyes not meeting mine as I whisper softly to him. I help him to his feet carefully, still aware of his injuries, having left the muzzle until last, the way I always left the biggest present under the Christmas tree until all the crappy socks and dollar-store toys had been done away with.

He straightens himself out, tugging at the collar of the cotton pyjamas which the nurses have had him dressed in. I reach up to the muzzle, anxious to unveil his beautiful mouth, his smile, his words, his kiss. He rips the cannula from his arm with a growl and a river of blood trails after it, running the length of his white arm as he brings his hands up to meet mine, scrambling to release the muzzle from his face. I unclasp the contraption carefully and draw it away from him; he throws it to the floor, free at last.

He's beautiful again, almost all of the bruising to his porcelain face now erased, bar the alluring shadows beneath his eyes. I let my hands trail to his cheeks, reach up on tip-toes to kiss him, to share in my elation.

 _I did it Puddin', I did it all for you-_

He raises his own hand to my cheek. Quickly and without warning, he curls it into a fist and punches me hard across the face.

My right side smacks down heavily against the concrete. I'm too slow to raise my hands to ease the fall. I'd always thought it was silly in movies when someone would drop after a single punch, but my God, now I understand why. It's like no pain I've ever felt before. Choking, that's different; constricting, almost druggish, dream-like when it nears its end. But this is pain designed to _hurt,_ and boy oh boy, does it ever. The bone above and below my eye socket takes the brunt of the hit, sending my vision spinning. I wonder if my nose is broken. A high ringing fills my head as I try to comprehend what has just happened.

 _What did I do, what did I do?_

I manage to lift myself up on one elbow, my arm slipping on the tiled floor. I see that its blood that my arm has slipped in, my own, red and wet and reflecting my own fear back at me. I touch a shaking hand to my face and find that the source is my nose, streaming red through my fingers in a ghastly stream. I taste the crimson in my mouth, feel it trickle down my throat, strong and metallic. Joker pounces upon me, gripping a hand in my hair and pulling back hard, like a puppeteer directing a cruel dance. I play my assigned part, hands flailing in an attempt to find some support, manage a cry; my arms find nothing but more concrete to hold me steady. I stare down at the white tiles and the spattering of red as the clown crunches his knee into my spine, pinning my legs to the ground and bringing his face close to my ear so that his hot breath steams down my neck. The blood paints a pretty picture in the tiles, rich and red and blossoming.

"Puddin', please..."

He brings his mouth down to the length of my throat, hot breath in my ear.

"That's for the slap," he growls. " _Nobody_ touches me, understood? _Nobody._ You ever try anything like that again, and I will do things to you that you can't imagine."

I try to listen, try to understand. In the space between my ringing ears manage to recall the time I slapped him during our first therapy session back together after he'd said... _what did he say? it's all so long ago,_ _I can barely even remember…!_

"Are you hearing me, Harley?"

I scamper for words. I swallow back a spoonful of blood. "Y-yeah."

 _SLAM!_ He drives the hand knotted into my hair forwards so that my forehead makes sharp contact with the floor; the pain is so disorientating and sudden that I don't even have time to scream.

"What was that, sweetness? I don't think I heard you properly."

I breathe hard through my mouth, desperate, stunned wheezes. I'm sobbing as I speak. "Y-yes, Mr. J!"

He presses his lips in a slow kiss just below my ear.

"Good girl."

He gets up then, releasing the hand in my hair and straightening himself before stepping over me in one neat movement, towards the exit, dusting his hands together.

"Well then, Johnny, my old friend. Good to see you. Let's get out of here, shall we?"

My arms are trembling and can support me no more. I allow them to fail, caving in against the cold concrete, praying for the dizzying pain and the screaming tinnitus in my ears to pass. Joker's footsteps recede.

I feel used, useless. There are tears on my face, or perhaps it is more blood. Both fluids feel the same, don't they? Warm and wet and unwelcome.

 _Was this it, all along? He takes me, breaks me, builds me back up again, and all for nothing? I'm going to be left here after all I've done for him? I'm just an easy escape route?_

I begin to cry silently, feeling helpless, stupid. The blood on my arms begins to cool. Joker's footsteps pause in the doorway. I look up at him, helpless, seeing double. He stares down at me expectantly.

"Well?" he says. "Are you getting up? You know I don't have all day. We are in the middle of a break-out, you know."

Confusion, followed by sweet relief. _He isn't leaving me, of course he isn't leaving me._ I feel my arms begin to move, my legs following their lead. I will my shivering form into a sitting position, try to use the bracket of the hospital bed to heave myself up onto my feet. My arms are too shaky to make the move; I try again, determined this time, and pull myself back up. I unbutton my bloodied jacket and peel it off, dropping it onto the bed.

Joker smiles, holds a hand out towards me. I stumble over to him and take hold of it. He brushes a knuckle over my cheek fondly.

"Ouch," he says, "that looks like it hurt. Come on, _'Puddin''._ Let's go and have some fun."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two: Cutting Ties

**Chapter Twenty-Two:**

 **Cutting Ties**

Joker laces his fingers through my own and pulls the silky handkerchief from the suit pocket of Frost's jacket. He hands it to me and I take it, pressing it to my nose to try and stem the flow of blood. I breathe awkwardly through my mouth as Joker and Frost exchange pleasantries, being dragged along dumbly by the clown. I still can't quite believe what has just happened to me.

"Punctual as always, Mr. Frost," Joker says, slapping the man on the back. "I've always admired that about you. This man's a keeper, Harley. He's never let me down, not once."

Frost takes a huge machine gun from one of his men and hands it over to Joker before sending the others ahead to ensure that our path is clear. "I wouldn't like to see the results if I ever did, sir."

Joker laughs, preparing the weapon for use. "And a morbid sense of humor, too. That's why I pay him so much."

We take the front route out of the medical building; after I explained about the extra men Sharp was sending over to the ward, Frost informs us that he would rather face them head-on that give them the advantage by having them come up behind us unexpectedly. It seems that the nurses may have been right about Joker putting on a show of how unwell he truly was; broken ribs or not, he moves about with his usual grace, every trim of weakness I've seen in the past month shed like a chrysalis.

"Cheer up, Harls," Joker says, snaking our clasped hands around my waist in an uncomfortable motion as we follow Frost. "Don't be upset. Look, we did it! We're out! _Oh freedom, how sweet the taste!"_

I force a smile through the pain. He wants me smiling.

As we near the front entrance we're met with an obstacle in the shape of the head of Security, Aaron Cash, and his entourage. I've only ever seen Cash from a distance, but he makes for quite the formidable figure. Four men accompany him, having been sent to detain Joker. _Good luck,_ I think, as they notice us. There's a half-second of surprise before their guns are raised.

I dive behind the desk near the doorway. My hand still in Joker's, I pull him with me; he wrenches away, bullets flying between the pair of us, neither of us letting go; both of us say _'come on',_ but we mean very different things.

"Let Frost deal with it!" I yell. Joker releases my hand and shakes me off with a laugh.

"Ten years I've been locked up in this place! I think it's about time I had a little fun!"

He jumps back into the fray, laughing madly as he fires off in random directions, bullet after bullet tearing through the air. I dive behind the desk to avoid the gunfire, cover my ears with my hands. A tiny voice in my head screams loud enough to ask me what I'm doing, and I tell her, _I have no idea._ I stay that way until the roar of the weapons dies, and only Joker's laughter survives.

I stumble out to find that one of Frost's men has been killed, but Cash and all of his boys are down, dead or wounded I can't tell, and have no intentions of sticking around to find out. There's a sticky feeling in my chest, the tenacious tremble of guilt. I'm forced to swallow it down as Joker sweeps his arm around me and marches us over the bodies, leading us outside.

Sirens are wailing in the distance, approaching the Asylum, with dozens of ambulances and cop cars already congregating at the entrance. The medical centre is disconnected from the hub of the asylum, so we are still at a distance from the main courtyard, ignored in the chaos as buses filled with staff and patients are driven off sight. From where we stand we can just about make out the roof of the facility where Ivy was being held; the entire complex is overgrown, covered over with writhing plant life. Joker chuckles at the sight, a little taken aback.

"My my, Harley. You have been making friends in high places."

Only a few feet from the entrance we find the body of another of Frost's men, the one who was sent in pursuit of Bolton. His face is bloody and his neck has been broken. Joker approaches the body and gives it a nudge with his foot.

"Two down already, Frost. Are you sure you picked the right men for the job?"

Frost excuses himself to make a phone call. Joker turns back to me, trembling at the foot of the steps.

"I've had enough of this deer-in-the-headlights malarchy," he snaps, causing me to jump to attention. "Tell me you're not going to keep this up. I didn't invite you on this roller-coaster so that you could throw up all over me."

"I'm fine," I say, trying to press the shake from my tone.

"Good. Because we're not stopping the ride so that you can get off, Harley."

"This is just all... new."

"And exciting," Joker adds with a grin. "Don't worry, you're going to fit right in. Now come on, show me your best smile."

It's more of a grimace, but Joker seems pleased enough. He turns his attention back to Frost's team, snapping into a military bark and playing the commanding officer. He marches up and down their line in sharp movements with his hands held behind his back, barking orders at them and demanding a return cry of, _'sir yes sir!'_ The goons seem confused at this sudden turn but know better than to refuse to play along. When Frost re-appears, he is a little taken aback at the sight but says nothing. I shrug his way.

"We're ready to go, Boss."

He begins lead the way back around the side of the long building to where our mission began. As we near the abandoned rear courtyard a helicopter whirrs overhead, then a second, coming to a halt over the desecrated building which Isley occupies. Our view is obscured from this side, but we still can't help but pause to look up into the sky as a dozen or more SWAT operatives are lowered onto the broken roof, armed with masks and all manner of weapons I can't put a name to. I realise that Isley is not trying to break out; if she was, she could have done it easily at the start of all this. She's redecorating, making her space within the asylum a home, and trying to eradicate the vermin that are getting in her way. All she wants is to be left alone.

"Let's move," Frost says, and we quickly cover the last few meters to the building's edge. When Frost and Joker turn the corner just ahead of myself and the goons, both stop dead in their tracks.

"Oh, no," Joker says. His tone is brimming with dark glee. "Oh, this is just too _good."_

I hurry to catch up with them, laying my eyes on what they see; an armoured black car, parked and abandoned. I recognise it from news reports and blurry photos snapped by the paparazzi. Behind me the thugs are beginning to murmur, worried.

"That's Batman's car," I say, stating the obvious. Joker is laughing, a manic _I-can't-believe-my-luck_ sort of giggle.

"You bet your cute little ass it is. Can you believe he seriously calls it the _Batmobile?_ And _I'm_ supposed to be the clown!"

He bounds over to the vehicle. Frost tenses.

"Sir, I don't think that's such a good idea, given that-"

"It's like all my Christmases have come at once!"

"...Yes. I'd imagine he's here to deal with the plant situation, so as far as we know we're still under the radar. We should keep it that way."

Joker battles for a moment with the idea of losing out on an altercation with the Batman, but allows reason to win out.

"I suppose you're right. There'll be plenty of time for all that jazz once we're out of the madhouse."

Frost breathes a minuscule sigh of relief. "This way, sir."

Joker laughs. "Screw the get-away driver! I'm riding out of here in style! Now, do any of you boys know how to hot-wire an armoured tank?"

"Sir, respectfully, we need to get out of here while we still have the upper hand-"

"Oh, shut up, and go find me something to get into this thing with!" Joker clicks his fingers at one of the goons and calls him forwards. The man does as he's told with nervous steps, pulling at the handle of the car; he is immediately met by some sort of electrical pulse which sends him backwards. Joker demands he do it again; he does so on fear of death, and this time the charge is amplified to the point where it knocks the goon out cold.

"Useless!" Joker barks, kicking at the unconscious man. Frost watches for a moment before reaching into the bag at his side and pulling out the rubber welder's gloves he wore earlier when about to attempt sawing through the doors to the medical centre. He hands them over to a goon, who begins fiddling ineffectively beneath the framework of the car, lying on his back with his head under the vehicle.

"There's nothing here," he claims, "it's all covered up, I can't get into anything."

Joker is visibly agitated at this point.

"Fine," he barks, grabbing the man by the legs and pulling him out from under the car. He demands to be given something _'with a good swing',_ and Frost returns with a large ball-pein hammer.

"Perfect," Joker beams, catching it in mid-air. "Well, If I can't have it, Batman certainly won't."

Without hesitation he strikes the window of the driver's seat, smashing into it over and over wildly until the re-enforced glass shatters; I stand in awe and anxiousness as he takes to the next window, laughing as he goes, then the next, until every vestige of glass has been destroyed. He looks up from his work, hair awry, eyes wild, and throws the hammer my way. It lands a meter or so from my feet.

"Your turn," he calls, beaming. "Come on Harls, go nuts."

It is tempting. I decide what the hell, because deep down, don't we all just want to cause a little meaningless destruction? I take my first swing at the car's hard metal exterior and it rewards me with a dull metallic groan; at the next ring the sound is sharper, and sharper still, until I'm enjoying myself just as much as Joker was. He's laughing again, and I'm laughing to, as he leans over the bonnet and scratches something into the hood of the black exterior. When he's finished I drop the hammer at my feet, exhausted, losing my balance and stumbling a little as I move around the front of the vehicle. I push dishevelled hair from my face and examine our work.

The car is a shambles. Carved into its hood are the words, _'Joker was here',_ with a clumsily-drawn grinning visage below.

 _"Magnifique,"_ Joker expresses, kissing his fingertips. I giggle, and he draws me sharply towards himself and kisses me hard on the side of my face. It hurts where his lips touch.

Frost is on the phone. He's clearly very agitated, growling at the person at the other end.

 _"Rear entrance,"_ he barks, _"rear_ entrance, you idiot! Bring the car around! ...All the more reason! Get here now or you'll regret it!"

Frost yells at the person on the other end for a couple more minutes before hanging up in a rage. He composes himself a little, turning back towards Joker and myself.

"The getaway driver's turned chicken, says he's been waiting too long. I'm afraid we won't be riding out of here in style after all." He gestures to the small truck we arrived in. Joker pouts.

"Well, it's no _Bat-mobile,_ but I suppose beggars can't be choosers. Come on, boys and not-boy. Let's go."

Joker leads me to the back of the open truck and extends a gracious arm.

"Ladies first."

I step up into the back of the truck gracefully, planning to pull Joker up after me; the moment I'm inside he releases my hand and pushes me forwards, laughing rancorously as I stumble. I grab for his arm as he turns away, holding him steadfast, still buzzing with adrenaline from our onslaught against the Bat's vehicle.

"You're gonna make me ride in the back with all the goons alone?! But that's not fair-!"

He brings his other hand sharply up to my cheeks and squeezes them painfully, gripping my face still. I know to shut up, that I've danced my way over the fine line between being in his good books and him burning down the library. His eyes are daggers. He leans in close and growls.

"Since when do you get to decide what's fair, Harley?"

I apologise on instinct. He pushes his hand away and releases me, sending me reeling. I slump obediently to the back of the truck. The rest of the goons pile in after me and the doors are closed. A moment later the truck stutters into life, and a small perspex window is opened between the passenger's side and ours. Joker sticks his head through.

"Everything alright back there?" He asks. I nod along, pouting. He flicks a finger sharply against my nose and tells me to lighten up.

I cling to the correlated wall of the truck as we begin to move; about our feet rattle an array of melee weapons, all industrial, from hammers to heavy metal pipes. Then there are the guns, of which there are at least two dozen in all sorts of sizes. We drive for only around five minutes before the truck stops and the doors are opened up. Joker stands on the other side, beckoning me forwards with both hands outstretched.

"Come to Daddy."

I dance past the goons and into his arms; he lowers me by my waist and gestures all around. I keep my arms wound around his shoulders as he talks to Frost. It appears that we're on the outskirts of the woodland beside the asylum. Frost is stood beside a sleek black Mercedes, which houses, I assume, our cowardly getaway driver. Joker shoos me off and approaches, rasping his fingers atop the roof of the car. The driver is silent.

"Is this the idiot?" Joker questions. Frost nods.

"You just can't find the help these days. Maybe I should have kept you as a getaway driver after all, Frost."

He gestures for the driver to wind down the window. He does so by a crack, the top of his head just visible through pane of tinted glass. I wonder if he was ever told who he would be doing the driving for.

"Nothing to say, friend?" Joker taunts loudly, teasing the trigger of his rifle. "That's somewhat refreshing, actually."

I half expect the man to drive away, but is too startled even for that. "No, mister, please. I- I just freaked, you know? But I'm still here, I didn't bounce-!"

"Oh look, now you've gone and spoiled the silence. Such a shame." Frost pulls open the door at Joker's behest, dragging the man out of the car and throwing him to the ground.

"I call shotgun!" Joker announces whimsically, before firing three rounds into the man and bouncing around to the other side of the car. The man is not quite dead, so Frost fires a single bullet into his head, and that's the end of his story. There is no time to process the man's demise, as once again Joker is calling to me.

"Come on, sweetness," he purrs, waiting for Frost to open up his door for him. He slips graciously inside, pulling me in after him so that I tumble into his lap.

I laugh as he pulls me against himself, coiling my fingers beneath his jawline and tilting his face towards me so that I can kiss him. He kisses me back, dropping the shotgun outside the car before slamming the door shut. There's no real room for the two of us in the front seat, all limbs and proximity, but neither of us seems to mind. kneeling on his lap, our lips together, it is only the thought of Frost climbing into the driver's seat that causes me to draw back from him. Frost starts the car and we pull away quickly, the van filled with thugs behind us.

"Safety first," Joker says as we wind up the long road curving around the asylum, struggling to pull the belt across both of us. The attempt becomes a mish-mash of limbs and laughter, and eventually, we give in.

"Go on, you," he says heartily, giving me a push and slapping my thigh as I crawl into the back seat, shaky with laughter. We take a sharp left turn I land awkwardly across the back sat, limbs sticking out at all the wrong angles. I laugh even more, insatiable elated giggles.

We bypass the main gates, going unnoticed by the police and others in the midst of the chaos. The truck with the thugs moves slowly behind us. With all of the staff cars and buses full of patients pouring away from the asylum, the police monitoring the passage to the Iron Sisters' bridge are concerned only with stopping incoming traffic, not monitoring the outflow, and we are able to pass by interrupted.

It's over. Finally, it's all done with. No more decisions to make, no more status to uphold, no more worrying about what could go wrong. I stare up at the felt ceiling and, for the first time in a long while, feel happiness. The weight of the world has been shrugged from my shoulders. I reach out a hand and give Joker's arm a squeeze as he rifles around in the glove compartment; he curses in frustration as the cast on his wrist gets in his way. Frost removes what Joker wanted from the glove compartment- a cell phone- and hands it to him.

"I want this thing off me," Joker says, shaking the cast in the air.

"I'll arrange it," Frost says smoothly, swiftly making a call. Joker throws me a stick of gum he'd come across in his search. I ask where we're going, after all of this.

"Oh, somewhere very special, Harley," Joker tells me. I lie back on the seat and pop a minty bubble.

"Sounds like fun," I say, kicking off my heels and touching the roof of the car with my toes.

I catch his distant gaze in the mirror. "Yes. Somewhere very special indeed."

We drive on undetected for another five minutes or so through Gotham's sullen streets, before parking in an almost deserted lot beneath a fly-over. Frost tells us to abandon the car.

"Come on, poppet," Joker calls to me, opening up the car door. I retrieve my shoes and follow suit, spilling out after him; I feel tiny beside him without my heels, and I'm not one who would be described as short.

Frost approaches a run-down black car. The man inside the car gets out. He is shaky, unassuming, dressed in business attire. He looks completely harmless. He opens up the trunk and at first I think there's a body bag inside, but it turns out to be a black suit bag. The man lifts the bag and withdraws a huge pair of industrial scissors from the trunk.

Joker holds out his bound wrist expectantly; Frost takes the scissors and begins cutting through the cast. The driver addresses Joker as _'Sir'_ as he scurries away from us, over to the glossy black Mercedes. He folds himself into the front seat and drives away from the parking lot.

I watch the car as it takes the corner sharply, screeching away in a bold fashion, its tinted windows reflecting my distorted image back at me. I realise that the mousey driver must be acting as bait for the police.

"Smart," I compliment Frost as he lays the scissors gently atop the suit bag.

"Standard," he replies, monotonous as ever. I frown at the back of Frost's head, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

Joker gets into the back of the tiny car with me. The adrenaline is wearing off a little now. I sit breathing on the window and doodling in the condensation as Frost drives us down a busy highway. I don't recognize the area of the city we're in.

"Stop that," Joker barks at me. "Come away from the windows."

I don't need telling twice. I wipe away the drawings and use his order as an excuse to fall back against him, laying my head on his lap. I reach up a finger and boop he end of his long nose.

"Are we nearly there yet, Puddin'?"

"Quiet," Joker dismisses, then allows his fingers to trail through my hair. I revel in the sensation, melting against him. I reach my hand back up to touch his cheek. He kisses my wrist, eyes focused on the world outside of the window.

At one point we pull up next to a cop car at a red light, and Joker and I are forced to dive low into the seats. Joker presses a telling finger to his lips. My heart constricts in my chest, imagining arrests and handcuffs and courtrooms. Frost is as cool as ever, not even glancing out of the window at the police car. He's wearing sunglasses now, a modest disguise. It seems that nothing can crack his icy disposition.

The lights change to green. We pass by the cops unnoticed and take a turn onto the freeway. It's almost empty at this hour, the sky just beginning to turn grey. I wonder why those cops weren't in action; surely with the Asylum in uproar they've got more important things to do than police the streets?

I wonder what the asylum looks like at the moment, entwined in Pamela's web. Joker must be thinking the same, as he passes a comment hoping that she won't go too hard on the Batman before he's had a chance to play with him. I imagine cop cars, ambulances. Quincy Sharp, dead or in the hospital. I shake my head to wash the image away before it can settle in my stomach and manifest into guilt. More interviews, more tears. Same old same old... nothing ever changes at Arkham. I wonder if anyone's noticed that Joker is missing yet.

I wonder if anyone has noticed that I'm missing.

I feel the pressure of my phone against my thigh in the pocket of my skirt. I imagine a dozen missed calls from my mother, having heard about the Arkham disaster as I'm sure so many have by now. I want nothing more than to check the phone, see if she is reaching out to me, but convince myself that Joker would only confiscate it if I tried.

"How much longer?" I ask as the roar of a motorcycle edges closer.

"Harley, I've already told you, we'll get there when we-"

 _SLAM!_ There's a jolt to the vehicle as something hits us from Joker's side, causing all three of us to jump. Frost curses aloud, staring up into the rearview mirror, to find that there's a helmet-clad motorcyclist screeching alongside us, wearing a peculiar set of leathers- it takes me a moment to register where I've seen them before, the electric blue logo emblazoned across the chest.

 _Oh no._

"It's Nightwing!" I tell the two of them loudly.

"Night _-what?!"_

"The sidekick!" I explain, and Joker's face turns to a scowl. I cling to Joker as Frost speeds the car along as quickly as it will go; the battered old vehicle is no match for the vigilante's motorcycle, and he's back upon us in a second.

"How many more kids in tights to I have to kill before the Bat gets the message?!" Joker growls, taking the glock which Frost is handing back to him. "Sidekicks are _not_ fashionable."

He winds down his window and begins firing at the motorcycle.

"How many times, Bats?! _You- don't- send- these-_ ametuers _\- after- me!""_

The motorcycle is armoured, dodging every bullet. Frost is visibly agitated, weaving in between cars in an attempt to shake our pursuer.

"How the hell could he have found us?!"

I shake my head, adrenaline surging through me. "Hell if I know!"

He glares at me via the rearview mirror as Joker reloads. "Harley, if you have anything to do with this I will-!"

"Don't look at me!" I yell in outcry, slamming my hand into the back of his headrest. "It's not my fault I've got myself a stalker!"

That suddenly makes me think. I recall my memories of the day Joker took over the asylum, when I met Nightwing, how he'd asked for my number under pretences so that he could place a tracker on my phone. Something clicks, and my stomach sinks; I try to remember that night he came to the Iceberg Lounge, of how he's always been so keen on watching over me, invading my privacy, and of how easy it would have been for him to implant another tracker on my phone with me in my half-drunken state, if he'd ever even removed the first one. _Oh, you bastard._

I wind down the window and I lean out of it, the breeze throwing my hair about my face. I look back to Nightwing, who is far behind now, swerving left-and-right in an attempt to evade Joker's next reign of bullets. I call out his name and see the blurred reflection of our vehicle in his visor; he swerves to the side, barely managing to keep upright, pursuing us with a new intensity. He's taken a bullet in his arm. This vigilante lark is not for the faint-hearted.

Joker runs out of bullets. Then suddenly his hand is in the back of my hair, and he pulls me back into the car.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

I push at his chest, shoving him away. I lean back out of the window and scream for Nightwing's help. In less than a second Joker has a hold of me again, and is pulling me back into the car with merciless force. He forces me flat against the seats, yelling, his hands coming up for my throat, and I yell back until he listens.

"Let me go! I have a plan!"

Joker's grip lessens. I spring back up at the first opportunity, pulling myself onto my knees on the car seat and leaning back out of the window with both arms. Nightwing is barely three meters back now, speeding along at our side, the hand of his damaged arm still gripping to the handle of the motorcycle but slack, quivering, like that of a marionette. I reach out to him with both arms, my face in anguish, and he steadies his pace, gripping his thighs against the seat and reaching out to me so that he might pull me through the window and to his side.

"It's okay, Harley!" he says, his voice muffled by the helmet. "It's okay, trust me."

 _My Knight in shining armour. My silly, silly knight._

I take hold of both of his hands, the air rushing between us. I grasp hold of them firmly and pull, hard.

Instantly his balance is lost. The simple unexpected manoeuvre is enough, and his legs lose their grip on the sides of the speeding bike and send it flying, falling to its side and scrambling away from him; for a second Nightwing is suspended only by my hold on him, and as I let go, by nothing. He tumbles across the concrete at an immense speed and then stops, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car by speedily rolling out of its way; as we drive on, he rears his head, removing his helmet and looking up at me. He holds his wounded arm, not moving from the road.

I stare back, still leaning from the window with my hair whipping about me. I cannot see the expression on his face, and do not want to. Neither of us moves, staring at the other, silent. I don't take my eyes off of him until he becomes a speck on the horizon, then soon enough becomes nothing at all.

Joker laughs when he realises what I have done, the cruel game I have played. He keeps on laughing as he eases me back through the window, drawing his hand about the back of my neck and throwing his head back, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.

"Good one, Harley!" he beams with a contented sigh. "He had no idea what'd hit him."

I take my phone from my pocket and remove the back. I harden my stance, refusing to let guilt nuzzle its way in. "He's got a tracker on me."

Joker snatches the phone away before I even have a chance to examine it. He pokes at it for a moment before turning it back over in his hands and pressing at the screen, lighting it up and scanning his eyes across it for a moment. He slips the protective casing back onto the phone and shrugs. He moves to toss my phone backwards out of the window, but I pounce on instinct, grabbing hold of it within his grip. He stares at me, expecting me to back down. I don't.

I feel as though I need to explain myself for this act of defiance. The look on his face says he's expecting an explanation. I edge away from the embers burning behind his eyes, but don't loosen my grip on the phone.

"I just..."

"You just _what?!"_ he snaps before I can finish, his tone cutting. I flinch as his other hand grabs at my wrist, suspending it between us. "What, is there someone out there cares about you more than I do?"

He presses the button on the phone, lighting up the screen. _Mom, eight missed calls. Four new answering machine messages._

My chest constricts with the force of a sob which I do not allow to escape.

"She'll be worried about me," I say hopelessly. I wish he could understand.

"Oh, I'm sure she is," he says. His tone is threatening. "How about I go and pay her a visit?"

"No," I implore, my response immediate. He takes the pleading in my tone as the act of submission he was looking for, and loosens his grip on my hand. He takes the phone, holds it out of the window, and tosses it into the air. We're moving at such a speed that I don't even hear the crack as it hits the ground. I stare after it for a moment but say nothing.

Joker pulls my head down into his lap again, his eyes straight ahead. His fingers tighten in my hair, not painfully, but firmly.

"You don't need anyone else, Harley, do you understand? You're mine now. _Mine."_


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three: Baptisim

**Chapter Twenty-Three:**

 **Baptism**

Eventually, we leave the freeway and come to a dark, obscure part of the city. We've driven for so long that there's a chance this might not even be Gotham, though the dreary architecture is unpleasantly familiar.

The car comes to a halt in a back alley. Joker gives his right-hand man a handful of obscure instructions which I'm not really paying much attention to. He gets out of the car and beckons me to follow.

"Say thank you to Mr. Frost, Harley."

I offer the man a salute, pulling myself from the car with the backs of my calves. "Well done on the whole breakout thing. Couldn't have done it without ya. We make quite the team, don't you think?"

Frost nods, as talkative as ever. "Let's hope we never have to do it again."

The two men exchange a few more words as I take in the dreary back alley, somehow dark in spite of the fact it's not even evening yet. Joker cracks open the trunk, folding the suit bag over his arm and slamming it closed again.

"Enjoy yourselves," Frost says dryly. We both wave as he winds up his window and drives away.

A rat skitters further into the darkness at the revving of the engine. I look up at the imposing dark buildings, obscuring the grey skies above. It's just the two of us now. For the first time ever, we're truly alone.

"Where are we?" I ask, a little unnerved.

"I told you it's a secret," Joker smiles, grabbing hold of my arm and leading me to a staircase which climbs up a grey slime-glazed wall. He seems to know exactly what he's doing; clearly Frost and I haven't been the only ones making plans. "You do trust me, don't you?"

 _Of course I do._ I think of Nightwing, of Quincy, of my parents, of the whole world that I've turned against. _Isn't it obvious? Is there anything more I could do to prove it?_

He begins leading me up the staircase. Our footsteps send echoes through the alley as we go, the sharp metallic twangs the only sound. I struggle along in my heels, the stilettos getting caught between the gaps in the grate, and eventually Joker tells me just to leave them. _You won't be needing them where we're going, anyway._ I pull them off and toss them over the railing. My blood is still crusted on their heels.

The door at the top of the stairs is chained, but the lock is broken. Joker easily manipulates the chain and removes it. The heavy metal door groans as it is opened, showing us a dark corridor beyond. I stare into the blackness. Joker steps inside without hesitation, gently pulling me along with him.

He seems to know where he's going, in spite of the darkness and strange twists and turns through the endless grey corridors. This is clearly a place he knows well. I decide it must be some kind of hide-out, hidden away where the cops, and more importantly the Batman, can't find us. Is this to be my new home? Dank and dusty and stinking of... I'll be honest, I can't even put a name to that smell. I pinch my nose as the stench gets worse.

 _It can't all be like this,_ I decide. It might be a little crusty on the surface, but Mr. J would never hold up in a place like this. He's nothing if not theatrical; this must be a front, to make sure the place will never fall under suspicion from the outside world, and we'll get down into the basement and it will be a whirlwind of wonder, plush seats and carousel colours and all manner of mad-cap things. After walking silently for five minutes down the dark stairwells and silent paths, Joker pauses outside a door. It looks like all the others to me, but it clearly means something to him.

"Wait here," he instructs me, squeezing both my hands and kissing them before vanishing behind the door, closing it after himself. He takes the suit with him. I wait patiently in the darkness, relishing the contact. After so long keeping him at arm's length every touch feels like a first kiss. The thought of the potential for more, of no more restrictions on the time we share or what we do with it, is exhilarating. I picture the room beyond as our little hideaway, get dizzy at the thought of him changing into that suit, coming to the door all made up with a smile just for me and two glasses of champagne, poured from a bottle he had some lackey put there earlier, along with candles and delicacies and God knows what else, everything planned perfectly just for me. I try to smooth down my hair, make myself look a little more presentable.

Another five minutes go by. Tired of waiting and sick with anticipation, I pay a little more attention to my surroundings, trying to get a bearing on the place. Now that I've got used to it, the smell isn't quite so bad. All I've seen of the place suggests it's something industrial, some sort of factory or smelting mill. It's clearly been abandoned for a long time. The ceiling is dripping with damp. I step aside to avoid treading in any of the sludge with my bare feet.

I hear footsteps on the other side of the metal door. Joker opens it, grinning, and gestures for me to come inside.

It is not the wonderland I was hoping for. In fact, I've got no idea what it is.

No sharp suit, either. He's still in his Arkham wear, though his disposition has changed from cool and controlled to barely contained. The smirk stays on his face as he leads me across the empty grey room, then through another door with an isolated chamber; on either wall hangs a row of hazmat suits, all a sickly shade of yellow, hanging limply like discarded banana skins. The floor is icy-cold on my feet. I move a little more slowly, concerned. Joker shares none of my reservednesses.

"Come on, come on!" he gestures, smiling back at me, sensing my nervousness. He takes both of my hands in his own and leads me playfully forwards. "Don't go all Doctor Quinzel on me now. No scardey-cats allowed."

I take him up on his challenge and walk with a little more purpose in my stride. When we pass through the chamber, we step out onto a narrow balcony, a bridge between this platform and a set of stairs leading down, down, down. It is deathly cold in this huge room; I wonder how far below ground we are now. I look out over the rails and down into the darkness below, but I can't see a thing.

"Where are we?" I ask again, trailing my fingers across the icy metal rails. My breath is short. Joker comes up behind me, breathing down my neck as we stare into the abyss. I see his breath on the air, smoking through the blackness.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" he asks whimsically, resting his hand atop my own. I shake my head, wide-eyed. He laughs, winding his fingers into my own and leading me back the way we came. Beside the door there is an electrical panel. Joker leads my hand up to the lever in the centre, clasping it over the wide red handle. We pull down on it together, and suddenly the huge room starts to come alive with a network of overhead strip lights, the glow they emit harsh and unnatural and blinking in places. They flicker into life one after the other, blinding; I blink away the discomfort and take in the huge expanse again.

When I glance down over the balcony this time, realisation sizzles through my veins, stopping my heart and staying my lungs.

Far down below us, dimly lit by the harsh yellow lighting, are a network of huge, circular vats. The answer to where we are has been printed upon the walls all around us in dark, umber lettering, over and over like a mantra;

 _Ace Chemicals. Ace Chemicals. Ace Chemicals._

I look up at Joker. He is still smiling.

"Welcome home."

No. Please, not this.

The clown's eyes are wild now, hungry. Perhaps without the lights on it was just too dark for me to notice in the first place.

I look down at the vats again, cold and greenish in the sickly light. I understand what he wants.

Part of me wants to run. Sprint out of those doors, scramble my way through the network of corridors and staircases and pray I find the exit, run out into Gotham's streets and never look back. Chase after that life which seemed so terrifying, going it alone in a new city where no one knows my face, where no one cares about Harleen Quinzel. I'd thought of Metropolis, or Star City. Maybe even Midway, if the worst came to the worst.

It just has. Joker must read my hesitation because he takes firm hold of my arms and doesn't let go.

"You want this," he tells me, bending so that our faces are at a height with one another. I shake my head. He nods his own.

"This is your baptism, Harley. Your resurrection. What more have you got left to hold on to? There's nothing left to hold you back, except yourself. Wash away what's left of who you were, all the things you hate about her... the inhibitions, the self-consciousness, the self- _righteousness,_ all your worries and ties. Become something new, something..."

He raises our hands between us, trying to find the words, his expression filled with adoration.

"Something _beautiful."_

I stare down at the vats, the yellowish-green liquid inside them skimmed over with a thick, curdled skin. I think of burning, of corrosion, of acidic stings. I look at the man in front of me and remember that there was a time when this man did not exist, that this is the place where he was born. I try to imagine the man he used to be, the one who he shares the last threads of his unravelled memories with, the man he speaks of when he recalls the few memories he has left. I think of how he was changed into something beautiful, yes, _God, he is so, so beautiful,_ but also terrifying, without any semblance of inhibition, someone who would go on to do such terrible, terrible things.

I think of how he forgot. _No, no, I don't want that._

I allow my hands to shake within his own.

"But you forgot everything," I say, confessing my fears. "I… I don't want to forget. What if I forget you?"

He laughs, looking up to the ceiling.

"Harley, Harley…"

He kisses me, long and slow, chasing the panic and fear away.

"Do you really think you could ever forget _me?"_

I focus on the feel of his icy hands within my own. He's right. No amount of chemicals could ever make me forget a single detail. He's all that I have now... and besides, I've made my choice. I made my choice when I walked into the Iceberg Lounge and made arrangements with a criminal to break my patient out of his cage. I made it when I let my colleagues die, when I injected myself with the antidote to Joker's toxin on more than one occasion. When I stepped back into Arkham's doors knowing what was waiting for me there, when I pulled a knife on my own father, when I shot Joan Leeland in the head, when I felt this man's lips against my own for the first time and fell in love with the sensation, wondered how anything could ever feel as good ever again. Perhaps the choice was made the moment our paths first crossed, the moment we really looked at one another for the first time, in the cafeteria of a run-down lunatic asylum, over a spoonful of cold mashed suede.

The thought almost makes me laugh. I know that there is no turning away, because there is no other path. I'm halfway across a bridge over an abyss, and with each step I take the one behind me crumbles. There is no way but forwards.

I don't believe in fate, but this feels damn near close to it.

"Okay," I nod, my voice barely a whisper. "Okay."

He smiles his beautiful smile and kisses me again.

Joker turns the lights back off, then begins leading me down the deep steps. One foot after the other, I control my breathing with each step. _In, out, in, out._

He pauses to point out over the railing; through the darkness, I can just about make out a ditch running through the maze of vats, ending in a tunnel as wide as a whale's mouth. Joker trails his finger up above us, where there is another platform.

"That's where I took my tumble," he tells me. "Straight into what used to be a river of sludge and through the pipelines. This is the waste room, see. All these vats are for the disposal, or at least they were before the owners scarpered. That pipe runs right out into the Gotham docks. Repulsive, isn't it? Funnelling all that waste out into the waters. I'm surprised they weren't shut down years before. It's a wonder the fish haven't mutated to have little Joker smiles of their own."

I laugh nervously.

"It's really not that bad," he tells me softly, sensing my fears. "It tickles a little, granted, and then there's the numbness, and, well, the _burning,_ but it really isn't as bad as you'd think. Besides, you'll just be taking a quick dunk. I swam about in this sludge for a good ten minutes before I managed to claw my way out; it was in my eyes, my ears, my nose. Almost drowned in the stuff, swallowed half a tank before I broke the surface! If I came out of that still smiling, then you'll be just fine."

When we reach the bottom of the steps Joker breaks contact and moves ahead, twisting in between the vats. I follow after him, but it's difficult to keep my eyes on him as he weaves through the maze of huge metal tanks. I call out, having lost him completely, and hear him laughing ahead. By the time I find him again he is stood atop the narrow wooden platform surrounding one of the largest vats, and the lights within the tank used during cleaning have been turned on so that the pale yellowish liquid sets his face alight.

"There you are," I say, still trying to make light of the situation. He doesn't say a word.

I slowly climb the ladder up to the platform after him. When I reach the top we stand on opposite sides of the luminous tank, the liquid within clear and rippling. The tank vibrates slightly between us, a mechanism designed to prevent the concoction inside from congealing. I see then that Joker has taken a net to the surface and scraped away the coagulated crust, the huge tool abandoned on the platform of the next tank.

He is not smiling now. Joker is quiet, watching me with an intense expression. We stare at each other as the vat of chemicals continues to radiate its quiet hum.

Joker reaches for the neckline of his shirt with deft fingers. There is still magic in those pale hands. Slowly, with a long sigh, he draws the fabric up over his head and frees his arms, his chest, his throat. He scrunches the clothing into a matted ball and drops it at his feet.

I stare enamored, bewitched by him, the look of his body in the low ethereal light. His muscular shoulders, those long, toned arms, the shadowy dividing line between bone and muscle. The pull of tendons in his neck, his lean, powerful torso, still splattered with bruising on one side beneath the pectoral muscles, where his ribs have been broken. He is laced with thin white scars, which shine like tiny lightning bolts upon his pale skin, wounds from the wild, enigmatic life he lead in his days before Arkham. I picture him telling me the stories of each of those wounds, imagine trailing my fingers across each shimmering scar, every hollow and contour of muscle, drinking every inch of him in. I want this, of course I do. How could I not want that, want him?

His green eyes glow a fervent lime in the yellow light. They don't leave me for a second as he kicks off his flimsy shoes and crouches down at the edge of the vat, extending his legs over the rim. He throws his head back and exhales sharply as his feet make contact with the surface of the rippling liquid, his ankles sinking into the glowing pool. He carefully lowers himself into the chemical bath, until the translucent liquid laps just below his shoulders, skimming up to his razor-sharp collarbones as he first finds his footing. He pinches his eyes shut as he adjusts to the burn; when he opens them again his face is stern, serene.

He extends a hand out of the water towards me. I edge towards the rim of the vat; Joker snaps his fingers, once, twice, and shakes his head. He looks me up and down in one swift motion and tells me,

"Take it off."

I do as I am told. There is barely a moment of hesitation, as enamoured as I am. His word is like gospel. Lightly, steadily, my fingers trace over the buttons of my shirt. I undo them one by one, allowing the garment to hang loose as I unwind my staff identification card from about my neck. I hold it in both hands, staring at the photograph of myself, the photo which was taken during my first week at Arkham. _Harleen Quinzel, Psychiatric Resident._ I stare at her a little longer, with her languid smile and dull mousey hair pulled back into a severe bun, wearing glasses she has no business in wearing. The girl in the picture is a stranger to me. What a silly little fool she was.

I watch Joker for a moment more, not quite believing that this man could ever truly want me. Even now it all feels not quite real. I try to imagine what it would be like to look in the mirror and see my skin the same alabaster as his, that perfect creamy white, scarred yet flawless. I glance down into the pool about his waist; when I see my reflection there in the shimmering liquid, I realise that I see more of Joker there than I do the girl in the photograph.

I drop the lanyard to the floor and shrug the open chiffon shirt from my shoulders. It brushes lightly down my back, whispering as it falls to the floor. Joker's eyes are all over me again, drinking me in. After that there is no hesitation, no resistance. It doesn't matter that I'm not perfect, because he looks at me as though I am.

I reach back to unzip my skirt. I allow the fabric to fall about my feet and stand before him in nothing but my mismatched lingerie, breathing heavily.

His expression gives away nothing, except that hungry look has not left his face. This time it does not feel like the predator eyeing its prey- it feels like craving, like I'm the only thing in this world he can see.

He holds out his hand again. I sit myself at the edge of the pool, my toes dangling above the trembling liquid by less than an inch. Joker moves towards me, holding his arms out. I rest my own against his pale shoulders, allowing him to lift me beneath my arms and draw me down, slowly, into the chemical soup.

Fear dances on my skin as the tingles start, in my toes at first and quickly spreading through my body, everywhere where the liquid touches. I breathe in sharply as it turns to a prickling pain, kicking out with feet which don't quite touch the bottom; I have to cling to Joker in my shock at the depth, wrapping one arm over his shoulders and the other about his slick waist to stop myself from submerging, drawing my legs up into his chest in a panic.

"Easy, easy," he says softly, holding me there as I try to work through the pain. "Give it a second, it'll simmer."

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling scared. My heartbeat races. "But it _hurts."_

"Oh, Harley," he says gently, "eventually, everything hurts."

For a moment the sensation is white-hot, unbearable, but as my body adjusts it becomes manageable. It feels somewhat refreshing, as though all the dead cells of my skin are being eaten away. I cling to Joker still, as he takes a few steps backwards and leads us into the centre of the bath. He brings a hand around me to the base of my neck, supporting my head, the other cupped around the small of my back. He stares at me intently.

"Tell me you want this," he says, his voice imploring. He needs to hear it, the way I needed to hear those other words.

 _I do, oh God, I do._ I never truly realised it until this moment, held in his arms, my skin effervescent, every inch of me alive. _I'm happy to burn, so long as it's with you._

"I want this," I say, and lean upwards to kiss him.

He draws away by scarcely a few millimetres, so that our lips do not touch, not yet.

"Then close your eyes. Farewell, Doctor Quinzel."

I stare up into his eyes for a moment longer, never wanting to look away. I do as I'm told all the same; he brings a hand up to my face, pinching my nostrils closed between his thumb and forefinger. I hold my breath, anticipating what is coming next.

His powerful hands grip me tighter and he dips me backwards into the toxic bath.

The world is different beneath the water. My head and upper body are exposed to the scream of the acid for the first time, that dazzling sensation which sets my whole body aflame once more. The liquid floods my ears and deafens me, the waves of my hair become an unshakeable weight. It stings my eyes in spite of the fact I have them tightly closed, but with Joker's hand protecting my face, none of the chemicals are able to enter my body.

I cling on, putting all my trust in him, and after a moment the baptism is over. He draws me from the chemicals, the liquid streaming from my ears and nose, streaming away from my torso; Joker removes his hand and I breathe in as though it is the first breath I have ever taken, the air a rush of cold, every cell in my body buzzing with life.

Joker wipes the remainder of the fluid from my eyes and when I open them, the whole world is in colour. Joker smiles down at me, and once I catch my breath, he lowers his head to reclaim the kiss.

"Hello, Harley Quinn."


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four: Headlines

**Chapter Twenty-Four:**

 **Headlines**

 _Joker smiles down at me, and once I catch my breath, he lowers his head to reclaim the kiss._

"Hello, Harley Quinn," he beams, our teeth still touching.

The single kiss was not enough. I smile up at him wildly, ecstatic, and push my fingers through his hair from the nape of his neck, gripping the back of his head and pulling him down towards me. I kiss him hard, not caring that the two of us taste toxic, the chemicals still kissing my cheeks, plastering my hair to my skull. He kisses me back with equal force, the two of us locked together. I am the first to pull away for air, my arms wrapped about his neck.

"I love you," I say, letting the words run from me.

He grins and seals us together with another long kiss. He walks the two of us back the edge of the vat, raising me up onto the ledge so that my knees are level with his head. The fabric of my lingerie has turned gummy, molten, eaten away in places by the toxic bath. Out of the concoction, the chilly air sets my being alight with a new sensation so that I tingle once more from head to toe. Joker is laughing, and I find that I am too, my feet either side of his shoulders, locked about his neck. The sounds scream about the empty cavern, echoed a thousand times so that an entire manic chorus joins in.

Now that our skin is so close and the lemony liquid has run away, I see that my own body is not the perfect alabaster shade of his. I am pale, yes, but that's always been the case anyway. My skin still holds some of that ethereal, powdery glow. Perhaps Joker was right about the amount of time submerged, about the chemicals getting inside his body rather than just external exposure. I am not disorientated, either, no sudden amnesia or confusion. Aside from the prickling in my skin, the only real change I feel is the same sort of rush given by the antidote to the toxin, only more intense. Things changed over time with the antidote, though; I wonder what the future holds after this submersion.

Joker pulls himself from the vat and meets me where I sit. There's hardly anything left of the thin pants he wore in the medical ward, and the threads of fabric cling to his legs like seaweed. He reaches down for me and I allow him to scoop me up like a rag-doll, carrying me bridal-style from the platform and awkwardly down the ladder, one arm about his shoulders. He slips as his feet hit the floor, almost sending the pair of us crashing to the ground, which only makes us laugh even more. I shower his pale white throat with kisses as he carries me through the network of tanks, his grip occasionally slipping from the liquid we're both still coated in. He sets me down beside a new door, which he opens up to reveal another of the rooms with hazmat suits. This room is tiled, however, and has a line of showers across the left wall. The suit he brought in with him hangs over one of the shower heads in its zip-bag.

Joker begins fiddling with the nobs on the wall, trying to find a shower which will work. Eventually one of the heads begins to splutter, and after bashing its neck a few times with the palm of his hand, the flute releases a steady stream. Joker jumps back as the cold water hits his chest, which sets me off laughing again. He laughs in return, reaching out to snag my wrist and pulling me towards him sharply.

"Think that's funny, do you? I'll show you funny, you little..."

He wrestles me beneath the cold stream and I shriek at the cold, kicking out at the wall, both of us in hysterics as we fight to wrangle one another beneath the icy faucet. Eventually, we reach some sense of equilibrium with the water and its temperature does not feel quite so harsh after all.

Joker massages his fingers through my hair, washing out the dense chemicals and returning it to a fluid texture, almost gooey from exposure to such strong chemicals. My hair touches my mid-back now that it is saturated, dead-straight from the water pressure, warm sensations prickling beneath my skin whenever Joker's hands brush against my back as he moves his hands through my hair. Beneath the chill of the water he feels positively burning.

I step away to watch as he rinses the chemicals from his own skin, Reaching his arms up over his head and running them over and over through his faded green hair, letting the water streak down over his closed eyes. He is beautiful, cold and perfect, not hairy and human like other men, but like a roman carving come to life, alabaster given the breath of life. He turns away from me, letting the water fall down his back, his porcelain skin glistening.

I bring my hands over his shoulders, massaging his neck, kissing the space between his shoulder blades. I snake my hands about his waist and kiss his throat as high as I can reach, in the lean expanse between his neck and shoulder. He reaches a hand back and cups my neck, massaging the skin there before pulling me around to his front, turning the both of us beneath the faucet and pressing his lips against mine once more. I lose myself in the sensation, trailing my hands across the map of his skin as his own trail down my throat, snake over my collarbones, linger across my chest and come to a steady rest at my hips. He walks me back through the stream, my spine making contact with the cold tiled wall. As he pulls away he bites gently at my lower lip, bringing a hand around to my lower back.

"I love you," I tell him again, as his mouth finds my throat hungrily. He laughs against my neck, his breath hot as a smouldering fire, and snakes a hand down between my thighs as I bring my arms about his shoulders and press my mouth to his.

~oOo~

Afterwards, I watch him dress in the dim light, as he layers on the refined purple suit which Frost had brought for him. The toxin-like rush does not seem to be fading. I sit with my back to the wall, wearing only the open jacket of his suit and a soft smile. Joker catches me looking as he buttons his shirt and turns aside.

"What are you staring at?" he teases.

"Just the man of my dreams," I say languidly.

He looks over both shoulders comically. "Well, where is he? Let me at'em."

I giggle and pull myself to my feet, stepping before him and buttoning up the last of his shirt. I wind his silk tie about his throat and knot it carefully.

"He's right here," I say, smoothing down his collar.

"Most little girls dream about Prince Charming," he jokes. After a moment he adds, "most of them are scared of clowns."

My reply comes in the form of a kiss, sharp on the lips. He kisses me back just once, smiling.

Once he's finished dressing Joker disappears for a few minutes, telling me that he has a surprise. When he returns he has a duffel bag over his shoulder and pulls me through to the staff bathrooms, where there are mirrors above each sink. I ask where the bag is from, and he tells me that Frost is waiting for us outside.

"First things first," he says, putting the large bag down on the countertop and unzipping it, "we have to make ourselves presentable. Here. A gift, for you."

He pulls a vacuum bag out and tosses it my way. I turn it over in my hands, seeing that it is a store-bought fancy dress costume, a jester's bodysuit with diamond motifs, complete with a cap and cowl.

"You want me to wear this?" I ask.

"Well, I would quite like my jacket back, and we can't really have you running about Gotham naked. Not that I'd be complaining..." he pulls a makeup bag from the duffel and begins powdering his face with a white compact.

"But it's a Halloween outfit!" I say, not quite sure what to make of the costume. The woman in the image printed on the front strikes a shamelessly sexy pose, a clown's marotte gripped between her teeth.

"Harley, you're with me now. Every day is going to be Halloween for the two of us. It's the best Frost could do at such short notice. Besides, it's funny- Harlequin, _Harley Quinn?_ Come on. It's too good of an opportunity to waste."

I pull the outfit from the packet, running the sleek fabric through my fingers. It's well-made, with a satiny finish and white detailing on the cuffs and collar, and pointed slippers built into the suit.

"It's kinda cute," I admit, wiggling my fingers into one silky glove to check the fit.

"Atta girl," Joker says, tossing a set of burgundy lingerie towards me from the duffel bag. The clothes don't fit perfectly but they're a decent enough match; I'm surprised Frost has an eye for such things.

"You ready?" say Joker once I've wriggled into the costume.

"For anything," he calls back. I turn around to face him and strike a pose, beaming.

 _"Ta-da!_ Say hello to your new and improved Harley Quinn!"

I catch my reflection in the mirror opposite and smile wider. I'm more than surprised to find that I like what I see. Joker too is grinning.

"Like it?" he asks.

"Love it," I affirm, bouncing over beside him and getting a better look at myself, adjusting the parts of the suit that need adjusting. I can hardly believe that the woman in the mirror is me, and yet I feel instantly at home with her. Joker slides the makeup bag over in my direction and dons the jacket he'd lent to me.

"One last thing," he says, once I've declared that I'm happy with my appearance. He runs a deep red lipstick across his mouth carefully before sliding the cosmetic over my own lips; I smack them together and he turns us both to face the mirror.

"Perfect," he says, his smile immeasurable. We look impossible, the two of us standing there looking the way we do, but I can think of no better match. We look as though we belong together, the magician and his assistant, the king and his queen.

"What are we gonna do now, Puddin'?"

He answers by taking my hand and leading me back through the building, past the glistening vats and through the dark corridors, up endless steps and out onto the balcony where we entered; the world has turned black since we crossed the threshold of Ace Chemicals, the sky a shimmering darkness painted with the yellowish mist of far-off streetlights. Sirens scream in the distance. The alleyway is smothered in darkness, the only light source coming suddenly as a car's engine revs and its bright white headlights scream into life. I blink hard at the glare, my vision stained by the negatives of the two white orbs.

"Holy moly," I say, seeing the sleek violet sports car which the headlights belong to. Joker wraps an arm across my shoulders as we scurry down the steps.

"Harley, meet your competition," he says, running a hand across the car's side. "The only woman who could ever compare."

"She's gorgeous, but she's not exactly inconspicuous," I say, feeling the paintwork, exploring my reflection in the tinted windows, the tint of which is a deep shade of indigo. "More of a Bat-magnet than anything."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Joker beams, clicking his fingers towards the driver's door. It opens and from it emerges Johnny Frost, with a somewhat confused expression. Joker grabs me by the hand and twirls me around beneath his arm like a doll on a music-box.

"Take a look, Frost, though not too close. What do you think?"

I fling out one arm in a dramatic pose, leaning into the motion with a dazzling smile.

Frost nods, his expression giving nothing away. "She'll be the talk of the town."

Joker pushes me away and claps him on the shoulder. "You've worked hard today, Johnny boy. Your services are no longer needed. You deserve the night off." He slides into the driver's seat. "Harley and I are going for a drive. We've no need of a chaperone. I'm assuming you can find your own way home?"

Frost looks a mildly disgruntled but doesn't pursue it. "Yes, boss."

"Good man. Harley, get in the car."

"Can I still not have a gun?" I whine to Frost. Joker gasps theatrically, cupping an arm over my shoulders.

"You denied my darling dearest a gun of her own? Shame on you, sir!"

Frost watches him, a little unease dancing in amongst the questioning expression on his face. Joker pouts.

"My princess can have whatever she wants. Give her yours."

A lesser man might hesitate, suffer from wounded pride, but Frost is no lesser man. He's ascended past social etiquette and personal shame, making him the perfect tool at Joker's disposal, which in turn makes him the only man working for Joker who isn't disposable. He hands over his own weapon and I handle it awkwardly. He reaches a hand into the inside pocket of his blazer and draws out a packet of bubble gum wrapped in cellophane; he hands it to me without a word, and I reach up to kiss him on the cheek. He stands back, folding his hands atop one another and waiting at the side of the alley for us to depart.

A banging comes from inside the lavish car; Joker is thumping on the dashboard impatiently, shouting for me to get in. I do so quickly, giving Frost one last care-free wave and bouncing inside the vehicle, which is just as flashy on the inside as it is externally, all white leather interior and gold detailing. The felt roof serves as a covering for the convertible, which I plead with Joker to put down.

"Maybe later. At the moment let's just focus on- hey, feet off the dashboard!" he barks, slapping my legs away as I scramble to return to an upright position.

"Sorry, Puddin!" I grimace. He mutters under his breath, shaking his head, then reminds me to belt up. As I pull the strap across myself, Joker starts up the engine and turns on the radio; I start singing along to the song playing which he quickly turns off, turning the radio to a news station. I throw a piece of gum in my mouth and listen along.

 _"-Situation at Arkham Asylum today, in which one of the Asylum's most dangerous inmates, Pamela Isley, who seems to possess some unnatural abilities over plant life, escaped her holdings. She was eventually subdued by the Batman with the support of the GCPD and external services, who Commissioner James Gordon has praised for their intuition and bravery in handling such an obscure situation. In the meantime, Arkham's patients are being transferred temporarily to Blackgate Penitentiary and Gotham General hospital, which is already experiencing an overflow. On the matter, the director of the hospital, Doctor Thomas Elliot, had this to say-"_

"Oh, blah blah blah, who cares?" I whine, switching the station back to some music; Joker quickly slaps my hand away with a few choice words and flicks the station back, telling me that this is important.

"'-will do whatever we can to support the terrible situation at Arkham, and offer our continued co-operation with the Gotham Police Department.' _In the chaos of the outbreak several patients have gone unaccounted for, including former Warden and owner of the institution Jeremiah Arkham, who was admitted to the institute late last year-"_

"Jerry!" I screech in excited disbelief, squeezing Joker's arm, "Jerry's got out! _Ha!_ Oh, can we go and find him, Puddin'? Can we, can we, can we?!"

"Shut up!" Joker demands, turning the dial and raising the volume.

 _"-perhaps of most concern was the notable disappearance of the Joker, along with two of his key workers, therapist Harleen Quinzel and staff member Lyle Bolton. The Joker's lack of accountability was the height of conversation at the emergency conference on the steps of the police building. Commissioner Gordon assured listeners that everything which can be done to find the self-styled_ 'Prince of Crime' _is being done, and that they at the GCPD will stop at nothing to ensure that he and his associates are quickly captured and secured. Anyone with information is encouraged to call the local police department-"_

 _"'Associates,'"_ Joker repeats. "That's you. You'll be on the cover of all the papers tomorrow Harley, mark my words. Just you wait until they piece it all together- nothing screams _'tabloids'_ like a therapist going rogue with her patient."

I lay my hand atop his on the gear-stick and give him my widest smile.

"Let's give them something to write about, then."

He beams, and suddenly I can't help myself; I pull him to me, run my hands beneath his lapels and press my lips against his. He seems surprised, but not unpleasantly. I hear a laugh at the base of his throat as he kisses me back. I revel in the sensation of my fingers running through his hair, the taste of him on my tongue, mingling with the sweetness of the bubblegum. He pulls away suddenly, his hand securely on the gear stick.

"Plenty of time for that later," he says, adjusting the mask on my face before wiping away the smudge to his lipstick in the rear-view mirror and gripping both hands on the white leather steering wheel. "Come on, sweetness- let's go make some headlines."

Joker switches the stereo back to a music station and cranks the volume all the way up; he rolls down the all the windows with the press of a button and drives as though the road is completely open, laughing wildly. By the way he swerves I wouldn't bet on him ever having earned a license, but I couldn't care less, one arm extended out of the window, the wind racing through my fingers. I watch his pale hands work the steering wheel, listen as he talks. Every few seconds he takes the time to glance at me, grinning, as though he cannot believe that I am finally at his side. I cannot believe it either, that I'm actually here, where I belong. When he looks at me like that, somehow all of this doesn't feel like a stupid, reckless mistake. My only regret is that it's taken me so long to get here.

It's irresistible, this feeling of letting go. I look again to the man at my side. _Murderer, maniac._ So much bad in him; I spent all that time looking for the good beneath it all, when the good was right here, staring me in the face the whole time, just begging to be seen. I know what he has been, what he could be, and there is so much he has shown me of what I myself could become. I'm so thankful that I could scream, or cry. I could definitely, _definitely_ laugh.

Maybe this is all wrong, and weird, and twisted. Right now, I don't care. I love this feeling. I feel like myself, finally. Why worry about things that might never happen, or could never happen, or didn't happen or did happen, when none of that can be changed? I don't allow myself to feel guilty about the decisions I've made or the path I've chosen. I let Joker take the wheel, throw my head back and laugh, happily along for the ride.

So maybe the cops will catch us, or the Batman will make an appearance. Maybe we won't get very far, and they'll throw the pair of us back in Arkham. Why worry about it? We can share a cell. I curl my fingers beneath his wrist and ask,

"So where are we going now, Puddin'?"

Joker throws his hands off the wheel for a moment and laughs. "Who knows! _Who cares?!_ You and me together, Harley, it's gonna be a riot wherever we go!"

He laughs again. I laugh with him, louder and louder until there are tears in both of our eyes and he swerves through lack of vision; because heck, ain't that the truth of it? None of us ever really know where we're going, do we?

All I know is, it's gonna be one hell of a ride.


	26. Epilogue, Sequel Teaser & Q&A

**AN: You may now unfasten your seatbelts. The roller-coaster has come to its end. No refunds will be given for broken bones or shattered hearts.**

 **Thank you all for reading, and double that to everyone who has been active with reviews; to those of you who have asked, yes, I still read each and every one and get all bubbly and excited every time I see a new one has been posted. They are truly some of the loveliest things I've ever read and I can hardly believe anyone could ever say such lovely things about my writing. Over one thousand reviews and only one of them has been negative, which is just madness. They have given me so much more belief in my writing; it genuinely brings a tear to my eye, so again, thank you. I wish I could hug you all. It's been a hell of a lot of work and pretty all-consuming, to be honest, and though it isn't perfect I'm proud of the end result. The sequel is available on my profile for anyone who's interested in reading more, and I've included a teaser for it here along with the Q &A!**

 **Forever yours,**

 _ **PuddinFreakyStyle**_

* * *

 **Epilogue:**

 **Stripped**

I watch as the sunny yellow of her hair is stripped to a stark, shimmering white, the peroxide draining away every splash of colour. The purple corrosive of the dye bleeds across my hands, swimming down my forearms, rupturing like tiny geysers in the welts between my fingers. The hair I hold doesn't look like much at all; it's soup than a solid, saturated with bleach, an intrusive violet shade. The sensation should burn, but the numbness has set in now. I could take a knife to my skin and I wouldn't even flinch. I wonder how long it will last; a couple of days? A week, or more?

I remember the first time, the way the numbness had held on like a lichen, making me immune to all sensation. No pain, no hesitation. I may not have felt the pain, but I still bear the scars. You start to think yourself immortal, indestructible, living like that.

The Bat soon taught me different.

Oh, I know what you're thinking. _This isn't his story, what the hell is he doing here?!_ Boo him off the stage, demand an encore from the main act! Typical, to applaud the puppet over the puppeteer, to ignore the one pulling at the strings. Well, my little Columbine has been hogging the spotlight for far too long. If Harley's story is going to have an ending, how else than with yours truly?

Hmm, I like that. I might use that one if I ever do decide to crack her pretty little neck.

Oh, dry your eyes. I've no intentions of killing her here; this isn't her end. In fact, this isn't even the beginning. If the Bat can get away with a scantily-clad sidekick for years then so can I.

I trail my fingers down her neck where the bleach runs, tracing her pulse. She doesn't feel it either, the burn of the peroxide. She has a beautiful neck, long and pale, a pretty display of her fragility. The throat is weakness, jugular and trachea and larynx. It's where the power is, the place where you can feel life pounding through veins, where brain connects to body, the mind to the vessel. It is the only thing separating a person from being a thing, the living from the dead. Own the throat and you own it all.

It's also the quickest way to shut someone up, should you need to.

I curl my fingers about her neck, only lightly. That's enough, that touch, just a reminder that I could, if I wanted to, a reminder that she could be broken. And she has been, over and over, and finally the stage is set for me to put her back together again, carve her into something better. I still can't quite pin why I'm stuck on this beautiful creature. And oh, she is beautiful; that smile, the soon-to-be-silvery hair, those big, round eyes that promise so much and ask for so little. A clown needs an audience, you see. I enjoy having someone around to laugh at my jokes. I think of how difficult it proved to get her here, how patience and the occasional white lie was a necessity. Others not so white, but she needn't know about those.

She trails her fingers atop mine.

"What are you thinking about, Puddin'?"

"Oh, just remembering an old joke."

"You gonna tell it me?"

"I don't think you'd like the punchline."

She smiles at that, squeezes my hand then examines the violet suds it leaves on her own, counting the bubbles on each of her fingers aloud as they pop.

"How's it lookin'?" she asks, wiping the residue against her front.

"Perfect," I tell her, massaging my fingers through her hair. "Just perfect."

"You sure?"

"Yes," I say, though there's little to see through the violet peroxide. Purple tendrils of the mixture drizzle down her pale shoulders, like paint on a canvas; and what a little masterpiece she's turned out to be. They say that Claude Monet had a habit of destroying his own paintings, puncturing holes in the canvases of anything he deemed not good enough. I can understand that; there are plenty of little projects I've tossed away myself, though as of late my works have been improving. Were I to hold an exhibition, Jeremiah Arkham, Leeland and this ditzy little daydream would surely have a place in my gallery.

I look back to the monitors hung along the wall facing me, a dozen LED screens all lit up at once showing a different news station. The floor is covered in an array of laptop computers, each accessing a different police database or live footage of the Arkham catastrophe, and a row of small radios play snippets from different talk stations. One of them is interviewing Lyle Bolton, that fat swine of an orderly who somehow escaped back at the asylum. He is angry, stupid as usual, his fat lips flapping to the interviewer.

 _"This city is an open wound,"_ the gluttonous pig squeals through the speaker, _"it's about time all these freaks were locked up, for good."_

I keep the most important radio by my side on the desk where a packet of electric green dye waits to be administered once I have my canvas is looking just the way I'd imagined her. It's tapped into the police comms, and I keep an ear out for any mention of the Batman.

I smile to myself as his portrait appears on the various news screens, footage of a down-town chase in Gotham coming in live as he searches the city for yours truly. My dear, deluded Dark Knight; he'd have a better chance of finding me nude in a subway doing the can-can than finding me here, hidden away as best a person can be. Still, it's awfully fun to watch him scramble around the city in the hopes of seeing me again- whoever said romance is dead?

The last of the yellow tones are fading now, and my little harlequin is almost complete.

"Look at you," I say, washing away the mixture with a pint of water, with no mind for the electrics which line the room; a couple of the computer monitors begin to glitch, their screens spasming with an array of acidic colours, emitting groans and alarmed wails. We ignore them as the last of the residue is washed from her hair, the texture of which is now fragile, sticky, almost, its structure derailed by the exposure to the bleach; but the colour is a ghostly blonde, a sheer, moonlit white, the colour of the stars.

"Perfect," I tell her, bringing her up to the shattered mirror so that she might see for herself. She smiles at her reflection, those blue eyes sparkling bright, porcelain-perfect teeth glinting. She's embracing it all, every step of the way, like I knew she would.

"Perfect," she repeats, and this time she believes it. She smiles at herself and she laughs. She always laughs.

I bring my hands about her drenched, icy shoulders, holding her there and smiling along with her. There's still more to do, still a long way to go; an artist is never truly satisfied with his own work.

But the stage is set. The audience wait in the wings, the curtain rises...

And she is going to be _spectacular._

* * *

 **Sequel Teaser: 'Resurgence'**

 **RESURGENCE**

 **Sequel to 'Therapy'**

 _ **AN: WARNING! IF YOU'VE CLICKED ON THIS STORY HAVING NO IDEA WHAT 'THERAPY' IS, YOU MAY FIND YOURSELF A LITTLE LOST AS TO WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON AT TIMES IF YOU CHOOSE TO START READING FROM HERE. IF YOU'D LIKE TO READ THE PREQUEL TO THIS TALE, WHICH DEALS WITH HARLEY'S TRANSITION FROM QUACK TO QUACKERS, YOU'LL FIND IT ON MY PAGE.**_

 _ **For the rest of you, welcome back, and prepare for a POV change- in 'Therapy', I felt that he first/past-first/present tense was necessary in telling Harleen's tale and for the joys of the unreliable narrator and us seeing her reasoning on things. For this story we open up to a much larger world outside of the asylum, and I wanted the workings of Harley's mind to be somewhat of an enigma, so a semi-omnipotent third-person perspective feels much more natural here.**_

 _ **If you are jumping in without reading therapy, you need to know this tid-bit of backstory;**_ **_in this iteration, the murder of Jason Todd (Robin #2) at Joker's hands almost a decade ago was what ended Joker's reign of madness and got him thrown into Arkham. This, as in the_ DCEU _, is what triggered Batman's descent into the darkness; he almost killed Joker for what he'd done. Before all of this, Dick Grayson had already abandoned the handle of Robin and moved to Bludhaven, taking up the role of Nightwing after Jason's murder._**

 _ **Anyway, enough of the babble. Forgive the exposition in the beginning. Read on, and enjoy!**_

* * *

 **Chapter One:**

 **Mad City**

Gotham was a city at war. Almost a year had passed since the Joker had escaped Arkham Asylum with his therapist in tow, and only now was the city coming to terms with returning to a state of being where the antics of the self-styled Clown Prince of Crime determined how they went about their daily lives. The tabloids lapped it up; first it was Smylex released at a charity event attended by Gotham's finest, where the clown had narrowly escaped the Batman. Then followed the sabotage of a newly-opened theme park, which had resulted in fifteen deaths and a dozen major injuries. It was classic Joker madness, the sort of erratic violence the people had expected from day one of his escape. Housing sales soared as those who could afford to made desperate moves out of the city, many of them remembering the clown's reign of terror a decade ago. It was only a matter of time until the city went to hell again, those citizens had reasoned; they had not been wrong.

Before the Clown had been locked away in Arkham, he and his men had gained full control over Gotham's thriving underworld; when he was finally been caught by the Batman during an agonizing chase which had ended with the brutal murder of the vigilante's colourful sidekick, it became a race to the top between the dozens of gangs and crime syndicates, and the Falcone's and the Maroni's had come out on top, establishing a fragile partnership. Their war had left many of Gotham's criminals dead, and for the duration of Joker's abscence the city had enjoyed relative peace under the watchful eye of the two families. Still, in recent years there had been relative peace between Gotham's underworld in the Joker's absence.

It was not to last. Unfortunatley for Gotham, the Joker had not forgotten his place at the top of the pecking order. The Iceberg Lounge, establishment of mob-boss-turned-club-owner Oswald Cobblepot, had come to serve as a meeting place for all of Gotham's horribles. There was a parle in place which every criminal respected, on pain of death. No weapons allowed, in order to keep the peace. Joker was not one for keeping the peace; he had marched his way into the club after two weeks hiding out from the Batman, brandishing an AK47 with twelve goons at his side, and had taken to his old booth in the club as though the past ten years were only a dream. Knowing that the Clown was not to be easily dismissed, the heads of the families had come to pay their respects to him, and had made an effort to keep him appeased.

The most unexpected thing surrounding the Joker's return was, of course, the effervescent woman who had arrived on his arm that night when he had first returned to the lounge. The girl had come as a shock to all, as no one who remembered the old days could ever have imagined Joker with a woman at his side, especially not a woman such as Harleen Quinzel had once been. The story of the Joker's therapist-turned-sidekick was a delicious one, and the media had lapped it up; everyone wanted to know the story behind this woman, this mysterious, colourful Harley Quinn.

The media used that name for her, rather than her birth name; there was a tendency to glamourize the Joker's moll, the way a magician's assistant might be coveted. Each media outlet had a different angle on this woman, threaded together from the little that was known of the truth of Joker's escape; she was a maniac, the signs should have been picked up by her superiors at the asylum long ago. Others claimed that she was just another victim, drawn in by Stockholm Syndrome. There were appeals from her parents on the news in the beginning, but that all died down eventually as she became just another piece of Gotham's mismatched furniture. All outlets agreed that she was insane, and that there had never been something like her in Joker's history before; perhaps she managed to get through to the clown in some way after all, one article mused.

Harley and the Joker were often found gracing the rooms of the Iceberg Lounge now, though their appearances would be without routine and unannounced. After the initial whirlwind of mad-cap schemes and colourful escapades which Joker orchestrated as an outlet for a decade's worth of isolation, sparring with the Batman and causing havoc, it seemed that her Puddin' had worn himself out, and was now focused on getting back to the business side of things. There were lots of meetings about hit jobs and weapon imports and money, money, money. This didn't sit quite right with Harley, who had only just discovered her love for the manic lifestyle Joker had promised; why her clown, who she had always considered the freest spirit of all, cared so much about controlling the underworld she couldn't understand. It was the megalomaniac in him, she supposed. Her inner therapist still cried out to her from time to time. She'd become quite adept at batting her away.

Bored or not, Harley had little choice but to follow where her Puddin' lead. Most nights in the club she could be found dancing in the golden heart of the club, her movements free-flowing and erratic; there was something captivating in the unashamed way she threw herself around to the music, and most nights eyes would be on her rather than the professional dancers hired by Cobblepot. If not on the dance floor, she could be found at the bar talking with the baristas and sipping cocktails whilst the clown was preoccupied or sat at his feet with her arms folded onto his lap and her high heels discarded by her side, pretending to be listening as he talked business with some mob boss or other.

Tonight she was dancing. She wore a red-and-black dress, studded with diamantes in their corresponding colours and cut to mid-thigh. The dress swung freely as she moved in time with the music, her silvery-blonde hair with its red-and-black tips dancing about her head in loose, shimmering curls. She was singing along and smiling, a diamond shape inked below her right eye. She was a vision, a mad-man's day-dream, not someone to be ignored.

All eyes followed the girl as she breezed away from the dance floor, grabbing a drink from the bar before sliding through the crowds and over to Joker's booth; through the gold chain curtains she saw a familiar face and almost burst with excitement, drawing away the gold panel and announcing her presence with a squeal.

 _"Sally!"_ she chimed, stepping over Joker's feet and throwing her arms around the man who sat opposite him in the booth. The head of the Maroni family was by far Harley's favourite of the people Joker would have grace his private corner. Salvatore was in his fifties, devilishly handsome, a waxy Italian with a razor-sharp jawline and kind, fatherly eyes. He seemed to always be smiling, and loved to laugh, which given the company he was keeping, was a favoured trait. Sally knew her father- it was from him she had finally got the full story of why Mr. Quinzel had spent so many years of her childhood behind bars. He had been working for Salvatore on a job, tasked with busting up some judge just enough that his bribeable replacement could take his place overseeing the trial of one of Salvatore's sons. The job had gone wrong, and the judge had been hurt much worse than expected; Mr. Quinzel had been caught, and woe betide, a twelve-year sentence for GBH had ensued. Harley imagined that she ought hate the Maroni's for this, but it was her father who was really to blame, wasn't it? Besides, Sally brought her chocolates; strawberry ganache, her favourite. How could she ever hate someone who brought her strawberry ganache?

Salvatore in turn adored Harley. He called her his pet and would bring her fine Italian chocolates whenever he visited, or sometimes cookies baked by his wife. She would sit at his feet eating her gifts as he and Joker discussed business, and he would stroke his fingers over her hair like she was a kitten. Most nights with Salvatore around Joker would be in a merry mood, but as Harley dove into her box of ganache with edible gold leaf detailing, she found that he seemed somewhat deflated, his expression consistently stoic.

"Cheer up, Puddin'!" Harley cooed, popping another chocolate into her rosebud mouth. She had almost eaten the whole box, but she couldn't help it. "Why you lookin' so glum?"

Joker frowned at her. The accent was beginning to grate on him; he knew that she had begun to over-play it as he had once or twice remarked that he thought her natural twang alluring. After nearly a year of that incessant screeching, it was beginning to lose its charm.

"Don't call me _'Puddin'."_

Harley pouted back at him. She knew that what he meant by that was, _'don't call me Puddin' when there's anyone else around to hear,'_ though he would never admit to such a thing.

Harley's nickname for Joker had moved like a whisper throughout Gotham's underground over the months, and now everyone had a reason to chuckle at the clown, something laughable which made him feel less threatening than the psychotic megalomaniac they knew him to be. No one ever passed mention of it to his face, of course. Still, Joker heard the accursed word hidden behind hands and whispered into ears with hushed giggles. He was all for a good laugh, but never at his own expense.

That was why, when he and Harley were leaving the club and he heard the dreaded word- or perhaps he only _thought_ he heard the word- muttered somewhere in the crowd, Joker finally snapped. He kicked over the nearest chair with an angered yell and scrambled his way atop its table, pulling his handgun and firing three shots up into the ceiling. What would usually have been met with screaming was met with only silence, as every face in the club turned to look at the man, who stood hunched over and breathing heavily, weapon still in hand. The music blared on, so Joker pointed the gun at the DJ and blasted a hole through his chest, taking out the sound system with another shot and silencing the commencing screaming with a roar of,

 _"SHUT UP!"_

As though it shared a hive mind, the room obeyed. Harley stared in shock, trying to pinpoint the cause of this outburst, knowing better than to interfere. She watched as Joker cricked his neck and brushed his fingers back through his hair and stuffed the last piece of ganache into her mouth. The room looked on in shock.

"The next person," Joker began, rolling back on his heels with an animated expression, "to say the word _'Puddin...'"_

Joker sprang upwards and fired the last of his bullets up into the main chandelier, sending shards of glass reigning down upon the club and taking out half of the bulbs. The screaming started again as Joker finished with a manic roar,

"-Is going to _become it!"_

With that it seemed that his outburst was finished. He hopped down from the table and adjusted his collar, taking a firm hold of Harley's hand and leading the way out of the back entrance to the underground car park, where Frost unlocked the Lamborghini and opened up the doors for the pair of them. Joker instructed Frost to drive, and held his head in his hand the whole drive back to their secret apartment. Harley didn't say a word for the whole journey. All Joker said on the drive home was,

"It sounded better in my head."

He said it with a groan, still not removing his head from his hand.

"I think they got the point," Frost consoled him, his voice monotonous as ever. "Do you want me to transfer any money over to Penguin? For damages?"

Joker sucked his teeth. "That wrinkled old scrote can get his own damned chandelier repaired, lord knows he has the money. And there are plenty of snotty undergraduates with sound-systems in this town who'd kill to DJ at Gotham's most notorious night-spot."

When they finally arrived home, Joker immediately pulled off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, lying back on the bed with a groan. Harley took off her shoes then removed her accessories one by one, lining them up on the dresser before kneeling beside her lover on the bed, taking his head in her hands and stroking his electric green hair. He sighed aloud and reached up to touch her wrist.

 _"'Is going to become it',"_ he repeated loudly, despair in his voice, playing his address to the club over and over. "Messy delivery. I mean, what was I going for? What is it even supposed to _mean?!"_

"I think they got it," Harley comforted, secretly smiling at the way he could get so caught up over something like this. "Don't worry about it, sweetie."

"Messy delivery, and a terrible punchline," He insisted. He looked around the room and frowned anew. "And this place is a _mess."_

"I'll tidy it up a little in the morning," Harley reassured him, pressing a glittery kiss against his alabaster cheek. He wiped it away on the back of his hand, staring at the shimmering red smear. He pulled her face down to his own and pressed a kiss to her smiling lips, tasting the cherry of her mouth. When she broke away he said the words, watched the way her face lit up as it always did. Then he got to his feet, pulled off his shoes and fell into bed still half-dressed. Harley snaked out of her dress and fell in beside him, burying her face into her pillow and wrapping her arm across his front, content in the sensation of having him there. Even now it didn't feel quite real, that he was hers and she was his.

"Sleep tight, Puddin'."

He smiled into the pillow, reaching back and brushing a hand over her own. He did like the nickname.

"Don't let the Batman bite."

* * *

 **Q &A:**

 **What gave you the inspiration to write 'Therapy'?** Joker and Harley have held a special place in my heart since I was a kid, and I've never really understood what it was about them that I loved so dearly. After all, underneath the gags and smiles and confetti, they are a pair of highly disturbed criminals. But I've always completely adored them and really related to Harley. I wanted to explore what it was that I was able to relate to (I think I've figured it out- it's the idea of normal life being too boring, and the escapism of just going wild and leaving it all behind- psychiatrist's field day) really, so I wrote myself a Harleen who made sense to me. That combined with the upcoming release of Suicide Squad, an assignment on mental asylums and a lifetime of dissatisfaction with elements of the 'Mad Love' story gave birth to Therapy.

 **What do you think about 'Mad Love?'** Though it's great, the speed with which Harley loses her fruit-loops and the way she was interpreted as never being very bright in the first place and sleeping with her teachers for good grades always irked me beyond words. Those factors really did a disservice to her relatability, and my capacity to empathise with Harleen, which always broke my heart as, once she became Harley, I felt so connected. Having her be a manipulative bimbo who fell instantly for all the tricks and jumped into the Joker's arms at the first chance really took the tragedy out of her transformation for me. To me, Harley's transformation should be liberating, but devastating, because we know what she's walking in to. A life of fun and frollicks with the man she is infatuated with, but with all the downsides and horrors that come with it.

 **Are you basing your Joker and Harley off of the Leto and Margaret version?** I adore both of them in the roles; for both, the answer is partly, though much more so with Jared than Margot, whose Harleen we didn't see much of before she got her brains frazzled and took the plunge. With Joker, I definitely wanted to take the narcissism and megalomania of Leto and put that into this rendition; stylish, calculating, good-looking. Visually I see him quite Jared-ish, though older, more reserved; no tattoos and grills in my mind, but you're more than welcome to picture these characters in whichever way you choose, it's your brain, after all. I've left some of the descriptions purposely vague. Dialogue-wise, though, I am not writing for Leto's Joker- there are a lot of things this Joker says which would never work for Leto's rendition, I think. There's a bit of every Joker in there, though. This Joker thinks himself a gentleman, very flowery and selective in the words he chooses. I wanted a Joker who cracks jokes, but has distanced himself a little from the gimmicks and madcap schemes, and slightly embarrassed of the antics of his younger self. Charm and manipulation are this Joker's main traits. I love writing him because he writes himself. That's something you notice about writing Joker; he's always a little too close for comfort, and once you wake him up he doesn't ever really go away.

 **What is your opinion on the Joker's and Harley's relationship? Do you believe that he loves her?** I think this question is near impossible to answer, in all honesty, with all the different takes we've seen on the characters over the years. Take the contrast between the Suicide Squad and New 52 versions of their relationship, for example; they couldn't be more different. It really varies from interpretation to interpretation, I think. In general, though, in my belief The Joker is a chameleon. He reinvents himself constantly, so I think his feelings toward Harley fluctuate just as much. I believe there is some form of love at the core, though, because he hasn't killed her yet, though I doubt he'd ever admit it or even knows it himself. I remember reading a theory on The Killing Joke interpretation which suggested he reminds her of Jeanie, his giggly blonde wife, which is a nice thought. To keep her around all those years, even while being abusive to her, there must be something there. I do believe that possession and obsession comes before love on Jokers side of things, though. I wanted to explore that power dynamic here pre-Harley; to me, Joker doesn't want to get rid of Harleen so that he can have his Harley. He wants to turn Harleen, something he already likes, _into_ Harley, something which he loves- and 's a manipulator, after all. He flips between apathetic to enraged and then back to the lovesick puppy/ clown that keeps her besotted. Does Harley love him? Yes, but there's also that element of idolisation, too. She considers him to be more than a man because of how fantastical he seems. I wanted to go for the acid thing in a new sort of way, and stewed over how I could approach it for ages; I feel like having it be a sort of mutual, sensual experience with religious tones through the baptism element works quite well, at least for me; baptism is symbolic of devotion, and here I've tried to lean on the ceremony of it all and what it symbolises rather than the effects of the acid. Rather than dedicating her life to God, Harley is dedicating hers to Joker- same thing in her eyes, one might argue. Hope you guys enjoyed this interpretation too!

 **The question of Nightwing:** Here's something I've been meaning to clear up for a while; I thought I'd written it into a previous chapter, but apparently not. Jason Todd's Robin is already dead is this story, and a couple of people have questioned why Nightwing has only made an appearance after his death. I'm basing my Dick *immature laugh* on the one we see in the Arkham games, where he stops being Robin due to disagreements with the Batman, and moves back to Bludhaven to take up the mantle of Nightwing independently. For the purposes of this story, this happened before Joker was on the scene, which I why he doesn't know of the multiple Robins. Jason becomes Robin after Dick and is eventually killed by Joker; our story picks up after this, and that's how Joker has ended up in the asylum. Since he's been away, things have smoothed over between Dick and Bruce, and Nightwing has started helping him out with missions again, which is why Joker assumes he's the new kid on the block.

 **Could the story be upgraded to an M rating?** I play with some pretty dark themes in all of my stories on here, but I try to deliver it in a way that's visceral, but not graphic, if that makes any sense. Like with Joan's murder; we see brains splattered about and hear the crowbar crunching through her skull, and though it's happening to this terrible woman, I still tried to write it as 'this terrible thing is happening, look how awful it is' as opposed to 'whip out the popcorn folks, lets watch this witch get her comeuppance!' Did I succeed? I don't know. Hopefully. The point I'm trying to make is that though the content is mature, I don't see it as belonging in the 'M' section as it does not glorify the violence or have anything overtly sexual, which is what people tend to search 'M' for. There is sex, as you know, but it's not written to tantalise.

 **What are your favourite Joker & Harley moments in Suicide Squad, and in the comics?** Oh god, where to start. In Suicide Squad, I absolutely adore the interaction in the club where the two of them are playing with that mobster like a cat plays with a dead bird (sorry Robin). I think Jared completely nails the "don't touch my stuff" element of their relationship, his facial expressions and temperament in that scene are fantastic. I also love the moment where they see each other again for the first time, Margot's face, as she's heading for the helicopter, is completely enchanted, and the "come on, baby" stuff kills me in the best way. My favourite comic moments would have to be their portrayal in Harley Quinn #1; there's a scene in there where Harley breaks Joker out and he pretends to be badly hurt and lets Harley baby him, but the moment she leaves he drops the act and starts ordering his men about again.

 **Why the hell is Johnny Frost South African?** In all honesty, I don't know. I've always had a soft spot for Afrikkans, though. I love the accent and the language. Although both iterations of Frost are clearly American, I can't help but hear a South African accent whenever I write him. My brain has convinced itself of it. Brains are weird things.

 **Why u no spell?** I do spell, but I am English, hence I use the English spellings of words. The document editor on here hates me for it and tries to correct me constantly. We have many fallings out over it. And before anyone asks, yes, I do love tea. It's mandatory.

 **What about Harley's parents?** I currenlt yconsider them estranged from her, though that may hange with the sequel or we;ll get some closure there. I wanted the Quinzel's marriage to be a reflection of what was happening in Harley's life. If you isolate yourself from the people that love you it's a recipee for disaster. The conversation with mama Quinzel is something I've had written for a long time, but I completely turned it on its head after a conversation I had with my own mum a week or so ago; we were talking about what we consider husband material, and I said that one of the most important things to me is that he would be able to really make me laugh. Her response? 'Do you really want to marry a clown? Someone who makes you smile then beats you up if you don't laugh at his jokes?' …And I was like, damn, mum. You have no idea how apt this is.

 **Tremendous thanks to every single one of you for reading.** **As always, love to you all, and thank you.**

 **Here's me signing off,**

 _ **PuddinFreakyStyle**_


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